SONGS  AND  POEMS  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


80NCIS    AND    POEMS 


OF 


THE    SOUTH. 


BY  A    B.  MEEJC,  •          '..'-\''.V 


AUTHOR    OF 

THE  RED  EAGLE,"  -'ROMANTIC  PASSAGES  is  SOUTHWESTERN-  HISTORY,"  etc. 
SECOND 


IVC  O  B  I  L  E  : 

S.  H.  GOETZEL  &  CO.,  33  DAUPHIN  STREET. 

NEW  YORK  :— 117  FULTON   STREET. 

1857. 


j*"*  f,        j^itsrod  aeyonling^o  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1857,  by 
S.  H.  GOETZEL  &  COMPANY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


F  RENCH    &  WHEAT, 

Printers    and    Stereotypers 

No.  18  Ann  Street  Nev  York 


PREFACE. 


THE  Poetry  of  a  country  should  be  a  faithful  expression  of  its  phy 
sical  and  moral  characteristics.  The  imagery,  at  least,  should  be 
drawn  from  the  indigenous  objects  of  the  region,  and  the  sentiments 
be  such  as  naturally  arise  under  the  influence  of  its  climate,  its  in 
stitutions,  habits  of  life,  and  social  condition.  Verse,  so  fashioned 
and  colored,  is  as  much  the  genuine  product  and  growth  of  a  Land, 
as  its  trees  or  flowers.  It  partakes  of  the  raciness  of  the  soil,  the 
purity  of  the  atmosphere,  the  brilliancy  of  its  skies,  its  mountain 
pictures,  and  its  broad  sweeps  of  level  and  undulating  territory. 
The  Scenery  infuses  itself  into  the  Song ;  and  the  feelings  and  fan 
cies  are  modulated  by  the  circumstances  amid  which  they  had  their 
birth. 

These  opinions  have  formed  the  poetic  Faith  of  the  writer  of  the 
present  volume.  He  has  not  attempted  to  sing  in  a  mere  spirit  of 
iraitativeness,  or  in  the  tropes  and  metaphors  of  foreign  Art  and  Pre 
cedent.  Gazing  upon  the  delightful  Land  about  him — the  Land  of 
his  birth  and  affections — he  has  endeavored  to  depict  its  beauties, — 
to  weave  its  illustrative  objects  into  the  tissues  of  his  imagination, 
and  to  give  utterance  to  the  thoughts  and  emotions  congenial  to  a 
mind  impressed  by  such  associations,  and  loving  at  once  the  Patriotic 
and  the  Beautiful. 

For  this  reason,  the  writer  has  felt  warranted  in  styling  the  COE 
tents  of  the  present  volume,  "Soxes  AND  POEMS  OF  THE  SOUTH." 
If  they  possess  any  merit,  it  is  in  their  fidelity  to  the  principles  just 
declared.     But  the  writer  is  still  well  aware  of  their  deficiency,  even 
in  that  respect.     They  are  but  feeble  and  desultory  attempts  in  the 


845206 


VI  PREFACE. 

expanded  field  of  his  Philosophy, — doing  but  ill-proportioned  justice, 
even  in  the  simplest  aspects,  to  either  the  Country  or  the  Cause  he 
would  vindicate.  Not  a  Poet,  by  profession  or  ambition,  he  has 
written  only  at  long  intervals,  or  at  the  instigation  of  trivial  or  tran 
sient  causes.  The  diversified,  and  somewhat  epigrammatic,  character 
of  his  writings  will  evince  this.  The  present  volume  is  composed 
of  occasional  effusions,  through  many  years  of  life.  Though  thus 
necessarily  individual  in  their  origin  and  specialties,  they  become, 
however,  from  their  multiplicity,  general  in  their  adaptations,  and 
give  voice  to  the  experiences  of  many  an  enthusiastic  and  imaginative 
nature.  They  are  marked  by  varying  degrees  of  ability,  and  fre 
quent  alternations  of  taste  and  sentiment.  Still  it  is  hoped  that 
they  will  strike  sympathetic  chords  in  appreciative  bosoms,  and  tend 
to  show  the  richness  of  the  section  of  the  Union,  to  which  they  re 
fer,  in  poetic  elements  and  attributes,  which  more  gifted  capacities 
may  hereafter  develope,  and  wreathe  into  the  garlands  of  a  graceful 
and  becoming  literature. 

The  author  submits  this  volume  to  the  public,  with  a  painful  sense 
of  its  faults  and  deficiencies,  and  with  the  sole  wish  that  its  sins  and 
short-comings  may  be  visited  upon  his  head,  and  not  upon  the  fair 
portion  of  our  country,  whose  adaptability  for  poetic  illustration,  he 
has  so  imperfectly  attempted  to  portray. 

It  may  be  well  to  add  that  the  pieces  in  this  collection  are  but  a 
meagre  selection  from  the  writings  of  the  author,  and  that  most  of 
them  have  heretofore  been  published,  and  have  received  the  verdict 
of  periodical  criticism.  Some  of  them  have  been  widely  circulated 
over  fictitious  names,  and  one  of  them  (the  ode  entitled  "  Balak- 
lava")  was  attributed,  by  some  error  of  the  press,  to  a  distinguished 
foreign  author — Alexander  Smith.  It  is  but  due  to  all  parties  that 
the  fugitives  should  be  reclaimed,  and  "  held  to  service"  by  their 
proper  owner. 


INDEX. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTH: 

Page 

COME    TO    THE    SOUTH,          ------ 

THE    MOCKING    BIRD,     -------3 

THE    MEXICAN    SEA,  -------  5 

GIRL    OF    THE    SUNNY    SOUTH,  -----  7 

-  -  -  -         13 


THE    FIELDS    OF    MEXICO,  ------ 


THE  LAND  THAT  WE  LIVE  IN, 

THE  SEA:   IN  CALM  AND  STORM,       -        -        -        -          15 

MAGNOLIA  GROVE,       -------17 

THE  HEART  AND  BIRD,    ------ 

NOT  AGAIN,         --------21 

THE  ROSE  OF  ALABAMA,  ------         23 

-         25 


BEAUTY,  SONG,    AND    LOVE,     - 

, 


THE    GOLDEN    BOWL    IS    BROKEN,  -  -  -  -  27 


THE    BELLE    OF    MOBILE,          -  -        '  -"  ""-  -  "         29 

LOOK    NOT    ON    THE    WINE,  -----  31 

A    VALENTINE,        --------33 

AT    THE    BAR    DINNER,         -  36 


viii  INDEX. 

SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTH,  Continued: 

Page. 
OH,    COME    BACK   SOON,-  ------         39 

DIRGE    FOR    HENRY    CLAY,  -  41 

ODE    IN   MEMORY    OF    WEBSTER,     -----         43 
THE   SWAN,         --------  45 

DO  I  LOVE  THEE  ?-----__      47 
CHOCTAW  MELODIES: 

A  Mother's  Dirge,         -----_  49 

Atala's  Lament,      -          -          -          -          -          -          -51 

OH,    DO    NOT    CEASE    TO    LOVE    ME,        -  55 

THE    HOMES    OF    ALABAMA,      -  -  -  -  -  -         57 

THE    MOTHERS    OF    THE    SOUTH,  **•  -  -  -  60 

ANACREONTIC,         --------         Q% 

THE    QUEEN    OF    MAY,  -'      — .          -  -  -  -  G4 

THE    ROSE    OF    LOVE,      -------         (J6 

A    TROUBADOUR    SONG,  -  -  -  -  -  -67 

BE    HUSHED    THE    HARP,  ---___          gg 


POEMS  OF  THE  SOUTH: 

THE    ARTS    IDEAL,        -------  73 

THE    NEW   GENESIS,         -------  g() 

THE   STONE   MOUNTAIN,       ------  84 

BALAKLAVA,  ------  -_g9 

NATURE'S  LESSON,     -------  94 

THE   DEATH    OF   JACKSON,        ------  9g 

THE   DOUBLE    DREAM,           ------  J02 


INDEX. 

POEMS  OF  THE  SOUTH,  Continued: 

DEATH    OF    RICHARD    HENRY    WILD,-        -  -  -  -      107 

TO    A    FAIR    VIRGINIAN,        -  -  -  -  - 

TWO   YEARS   AGO,   MEDORA,    -  -  -  -  -  -113 

MY   MOTHER,      -------- 

A  SOLDIER'S  LOVE-DREAM,    ------    118 

191 
A   MONODY, 

124 

OLYMPIC    SPORTS, 

THE   DUTCHESS    OF   DEVONSHIRE,  -  -  -  - 

WHY   WEEP    FOR    THE   YOUNG?        -----      132 

THE   FATED    CITY,        ------- 

THE   ROSE   OF    CHARLESTON,  -----      138 

i  .in 

THE    LIGHTNING-SLAIN,       - 

144 
TO   A    YOUNG    LADY, 

147 
CARMEN   SECULARS,   - 

BIRD    OF    THE    SOUTH,  -  -  -  -  -'*    -      152 

MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE,       -        -        -        -        -    1J4- 

LE  BON  TEMPS  VIENDRA,    ------  157 

THE  NATAL  STAR,   ------- 

TO  EGERIA,      --------  161 

ELEGY    ON   A   MOCKING    BIRD,      -----  163 


A   VALENTINE,        -----  ~^^~nt.f~ 

TO   A   DARK-EYED    GEORGIAN,       -  -  -  -  - 

TO  ANGELINE:  WITH  A  BIBLE,     -----    171 

-    175 


TO   VIRGINIA,     --------  173 


FLORENCE,  - 

LOVE'S    EMBLEMS,        -------  176 


X  INDEX. 

POEMS  OF  THE  SOUTH,  Continued: 

Page. 
TO    A    BEAUTIFUL    STRANGER,  -  178 

THE    CAPITOL    BY    MOONLIGHT,    -----  183 

ALBUM    LEAVES,      --------      189 

IRELAND,  -----___  198 

THREE  SONNETS,          ----_._  200 

A  PORTRAIT,    --------  202 

LOVE'S  LESSON,    ------__  205 

REQUITED  LOVE,       ------_  207 

AT  PARTING,        --•--».._  209 

TO    MARY,  —.---...__  210 

A  LADY'S  VALENTINE,  --.___    212 

EPITAPHS,          -        -        -        -        -        _        -        _        214 

THE  DAY  OF  FREEDOM, 217 

ADAMS'  PROPHECY,    -----._  222 

NATIONAL  ANTHEM,     ----..-  228 

LAND  OF  THE  SOUTH,       -•*.._  243 

THE  NUPTIAL  FETE,       "-  .   V    ".       .       .       .       .    249 

BRIDAL    SONG,  ---...„  258 

LOVE'S    METAPHORS,        -----,_      270 
FAREWELL.  ----.--_  280 


Pase  66,  line    9.    -    -    -    -      For  are  read  art. 

'•  67,    "14. For  Than  read  Then. 

««  74,     ••      7.    -    -     -  For  it  read  that. 

'  86,     "      5. For  come  read  came. 

"  128,     •'      3.    -    -    -     -      For  heart  read  art. 

•'  181.     "      7- For   When  read  Where. 

•'  185,     •'     17.    -     -    -     -      Add  noir,  at  the  end. 

-  191,  7.  -    -  -  Transpose  only  before  in. 

••  205,    "      6.    -    -     -     -      For  smiled  read  united. 

••  218,    "      7, Transpose  With  and  What  in  next  line. 

"  232,  last  line.      -    -    -      For  this  read  the. 

••  241.  line  3  from  bottom.    For  need  read  new. 

••  254,     "3. For  lover  read  lored. 

••  254.     "13. For  art  read  are. 


X  INDEX. 

POEMS  OF  THE  SOUTH,  Continued: 

Page. 

TO    A    BEAUTIFUL    STRANGER,             -  178 

THE    CAPITOL    BY   MOONLIGHT,    -----  183 

ALBUM    LEAVES,      --------  189 

IRELAND,               ------__  IQg 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


GEN.  MIRABEAff  B.  LAMAR, 

EX-PRESIDENT  OF  TEXAS, 

THE  SOLDIER,  STATESMAN   AND  POET: 


WHICH   HE    HAS   SO   KINDLY   APPROVED, 
ARE    AFFECTIONATELY   DEDICATED. 


SONGS  OF  TH*E  SOUTH. 


COME  TO  THE  SOUTH. 

Oh,  come  to  the  South,  sweet,  beautiful  one, 
'Tis  the  clime  of  the  heart,  'tis  the  shrine  of  the  sun  ; 
Where  the  sky  ever  shines  with  a  passionate  glow, 
And  flowers  spread  their  treasures  of  crimson  and  snow  ; 
Where  the  breeze,  o'er  bright  waters,  wafts  incense  along, 
And  gay  birds  are  glancing  in  beauty  and  song  ; 
Where  summer  smiles  ever  o'er  mountain  and  plain, 
And  the  best  gifts  of  Eden,  unshadowed,  remain. 

Oh,  come  to  the  South, 
The  shrine  of  the  sun  ; 

And  dwell  in  its  bowers, 
Sweet,  beautiful  one. 


Is  BONOS   OF    THE   SOUTH. 

Oh,  come  to  the  South,  and  I'll  build  thee  a  home, 
Where  winter  shall  never  intrusively  come, 
The  queen-like  catalpa,  the  myrtle  and  pine, 
The  gold-fruited  orange,  the  ruby-gemmed  vine, 
Shall  bloom  'round  thy  dwelling,  and  shade  thee  at  noon. 
While  birds  of  all  music  keep  amorous  tune  ; 
By  the  gush  of  glad  fountains  we'll  rest  us  at  eve, 
No  trouble  to  vex  us,  no  sorrows  to  grieve. 

Oh,  come  to  the  South,  &c. 


Oh,  come  to  the  South,  'tis  the  home  of  the  heart — 
No  sky  like  its  own  can  deep  passion  impart ; 
The  glow  of  its  summer  is  felt  in  the  soul, 
And  love  keepeth  ever  his  fervent  control. 
Oh,  here  would  thy  beauty  most  brilliantly  beam, 
And  life  pass  away  like  some  delicate  dream  ; 
Each  wish  of  thy  heart  should  realized  be, 
And  this  beautiful  land  seem  an  Eden  to  thee. 

Then,  come  to  the  South, 
The  shrine  of  the  sun  ; 

And  dwell  in  its  bowers, 
Sweet,  beautiful  one. 


THE  MOCKING  BIRD. 

From  the  vale,  what  music  ringing, 

Fills  the  bosom  of  the  night ; 
On  the  sense,  entranced,  flinging 
Spells  of  witchery  and  delight ! 
O'er  magnolia,  lime  and  cedar, 

From  yon  locust-top,  it  swells, 
Like  the  chant  of  serenader, 
Or  the  rhymes  of  silver  bells  ! 
Listen  !  dearest,  listen  to  it ! 

Sweeter  sounds  were  never  heard  ! 
'Tis  the  song  of  that  wild  poet — 
Mime  and  minstrel — MocMng-Bird. 

See  him.,  swinging  in  his  glory, 

On  yon  topmost  bending  limb  ! 
Carolling  his  amorous  story, 

Like,  some  wild  crusader's  hymn  ! 
Now  it  faints  in  tones  delicious 

As  the  first  low  vow  of  love  ! 


SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Now  it  bursts  in  swells  capricious, 
All  the  moonlit  vale  above  ! 
Listen !  dearest,  &c. 

Why  is't  thus,  this  sylvan  Petrarch 

Pours  all  night  his  serenade  ? 
'Tis  for  some  proud  woodland  Laura, 

His  sad  sonnets  all  are  made  ! 
But  he  changes  now  his  measure — 

Gladness  bubbling  from  his  mouth — 
Jest,  and  gibe,  and  mimic  pleasure — 

Winged  Anacreon  of  the  South  ! 
Listen !  dearest,  &c. 

Bird  of  music,  wit  and  gladness, 

Troubadour  of  sunny  climes, 
Disenchanter  of  all  sadness, — 

Would  thine  art  were  in  my  rhymes. 
O'er  the  heart  that's  beating  by  me, 

I  would  weave  a  spell  divine ; 
Is  there  aught  she  could  deny  me, 

Drinking  in  such  strains  as  thine  ? 
Listen  !  dearest,  &c. 


THE  MEXICAN  SEA. 

Oh  !  come  to  the  sycamore,  maiden,  with  me  ! 
The  stars  are  awake  on  the  Mexican  Sea, — 
The  breath  of  the  orange,  the  myrtle  and  lime, 
Gives  sweets  to  the  sky  of  this  delicate  clime, — 
The  song  of  the  mocking-bird  rings  from  the  trees, 
And  coolness  and  beauty  are  out  on  the  breeze  : 
Then  come  to  the  sycamore,  maiden,  with  me, 
And  watch  the  stars  float  on  the  Mexican  Sea  ! 

Oh  !  come  to  the  sycamore,  maid,  and  I'll  tell 
A  story  was  breathed  by  a  coral-lipped  shell ; 
It  told  of  a  knight  of  this  passionate  land, 
Who  long  sought  the  boon  of  a  fair  lady's  hand. 
The  lady  was  cruel ;  his  visions  all  o'er, 
He  wandered,  one  night,  to  this  broad  sycamore  ; 
In  its  shadow  he  stood  as  I  now  with  thee, 
And  watched  the  stars  weep  o'er  the  Mexican  Sea  ! 

The  lady  was  fair  as  the  sky  of  her  clime  ; 
Her  voice  had  the  tune  of  its  sweet  waters'  chime  ; 
The  light  of  her  brow,  the  magnolia  had  given  ; 
The  violet  smiled  in  her  eyes'  happy  heaven  ; 


SONGS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Her  blushes  were  caught  from  the  roses  of  dawn  ; 
The  grace  of  her  motion,  the  glide  of  the  swan  ; 
But  none  of  these  charms  for  that  lover  could  be, 
And  he  slept  in  despair  'neath  the  Mexican  Sea  ! 

Then  under  the  sycamore,  here  by  the  sea, 
That  thou  art  that  lady,  I'd  whisper  to  thee, 
And  I  the  bold  knight,  who—but  start,  not  my  love— 
The  stars  are  now  holding  their  nuptials  above  ! 
Why  not  'mid  the  sweets  of  this  silver-rimmed  night, 
Make  the  heart  of  thy  lover  as  happy  and  bright  ? 
Ah,  yes  ! — 'tis  enough  ! — our  Eden  shall  be 
The  sycamore  shade  by  the  Mexican  Sea  ! 


GIKL  OF  THE  SUNNY  SOUTH. 

Girl  of  the  sunny  South, 

Bright,  round  thy  rosy  mouth, 
Dimples  and  smiles  are  ever  at  play  : 

Sweet  in  thy  fountain  eyes, 

Mirrored,  the  azure  skies 
Tell  us  of  angels  and  heaven  alway  ! 

Sunbeams,  in  golden  twine, 

Over  some  pearly  shrine, 
Emblem  thy  curls  placed  carefully  by  : 

Never  the  lily  meek 

Blushed  with  so  pure  a  cheek, 
Tinged  by  the  rays  of  an  evening  sky. 

Sweet  is  thy  laughing  tone 

As  the  low  music  blown 
Out  of  an  ocean  'shell  by  the  sea-maids  ; 

Soft,  over  heart  and  soul, 

Steals  it  with  deep  control, 
Leading  them  rapt  through  Love's  sunny  glades  ! 


SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Ne'er  did,  on  mountain  lake; 

Swan  the  wild  mirror  break, 
Gliding  in  motion  so  graceful  as  thine, — 

Lark  on  the  summer  sky, 

Breeze  'mid  the  bending  rye, 
Fountain  through  flowers,  are  not  so  divine  ! 

Bright  as  thy  native  clime, 

Decked  in  its  vernal  time, 
Girl  of  the  South,  in  all  things  you  seem  ! 

Ever  thus  sweetly  shine, 

Cinctured  by  light  divine, — 
Poetry's  sunniest,  fondest  dream  ! 


THE  FIELDS  OF  MEXICO. 

The  American  Maiden's  Song  to  her  Lover. 

Would'st  thou  have  me  love  thee,  dearest, 

With  a  woman's  proudest  heart, 
Which  shall  ever  hold  thee  nearest, 

Shrined  within  its  inmost  part  ? — 
Listen  then  ! — thy  country's  calling 
On  her  sons  to  meet  her  foe  ! 

Leave  these  groves  of  rose  and  myrtle  ! — 

Drop  the  dreamy  harp  of  love  ! — 
Like  young  Korner,  scorn  the  turtle, 
While  the  eagle  screams  above  1 — 
Haste  !  where  Freedom's  sons  are  falling 
On  the  fields  of  Mexico  ! 

Dost  thou  pause  ? — Let  dotards  dally — 

Do  thou  for  thy  country  fight  ! 
'Xeath  her  starry  emblem,  rally — 

"  God  !  our  Country  !  and  her  Right  !" 
Listen  now  ! — her  trumpet's  calling 
On  her  sons  to  meet  her  foe  ! 

Woman's  heart  is  soft  and  tender, 
But  'tis  proud  and  faithful  too  ! 


10  SONGS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Shall  she  be  her  land's  defender  ! 

Lover  ! — Soldier  ! — up  and  do  ! — 
Haste  away  ! — where  men  are  falling 
On  the  fields  of  Mexico  ! 

Seize  thy  father's  ancient  falchion, 

Which  once  flashed  as  freedom's  star  ! 
Till  sweet  Peace, — the  bow  and  halcyon,- 

Stilled  the  stormy  strife  of  war  ! 
Listen  now  ! — thy  country's  calling 
On  her  sons  to  meet  her  foe  ! 

Sweet  is  love  in  moonlit  bowers  ! — 
Sweet  the  altar  and  the  flame  ! — 
Sweet  is  spring-time  with  her  flowers  ! — 

Sweeter  far  the  patriot's  name  ! 
Haste  !  then  haste  !  brave  hearts  are  falling 
On  the  fields  of  Mexico  ! 

Wreaths  of  fame  and  smiles  of  beauty 

Will  repay  the  warrior's  deeds  ! 
Shall  a  quibble  sully  duty, 

When  an  outraged  country  pleads  ? 
Hark  !  then  hark  ! — her  trump  is  calling 
On  her  sons  to  meet  her  foe  ! 


SONGS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  11 

Now  our  loved  and  trophied  banner 

Floats  where  Cortez'  eagles  flew  ! — 
Shall  the  hordes  of    Santa  Anna 

Stain  its  field  of    starry  blue  ? — 
Haste  !  thy  brethren  now  are  falling 
On  the  fields  of  Mexico  ! 

Should  the  God  who  rules  above  thee, 

Doom  thee  to  a  soldier's  grave, 
Hearts  will  break  ! — but  Fame  will  love  thee, 

Canonized  among  the  brave  ! — 
Listen  then  ! — thy  country's  calling 
On  her  sons  to  meet  her  foe  ! — 
Rather  would  I  view  thee  lying 

On  the  last  red  field  of  life, 
'Mid  thy  country's  heroes  dying, 

Than  to  be  a  dastard's  wife  ! — 
Haste  then,  love  !  where  men  are  falling 
On  the  fields  of  Mexico ! 

But  my  heart  grows  now  a  prophet, 

And  beholds  afar  thy  brow, 
With  young  glory's  star  above  it, 

Safe  returned,  before  me  bow  ! 


J'J  SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Listen  then  ! — thy  country  's  calling 
On  her  sons  to  meet  her  foe  ! — 
Leave  these  groves  of  rose  and  myrtle  !— 
Drop  the  the  dreamy  harp  of  love  ! — 
Like  young  Korner,  scorn  the  turtle, 
When  the  eagle  screams  above  ! — 
Haste  !  where  Freedom's  sons  are  falling 
On  the  fields  of  Mexico  ! 


THE  LAND  THAT  WE  LIVE  IN  ! 

Oh  !  bright  is  the  land  that  we  live  in, 
And  soft  blow  the  breezes  around — 
The  stare  make  a  palace  of  heaven, 
And  flowers  enamel  the  ground  ! 
The  orange  and  chestnut  are  flinging 

Their  odors  divine  on  the  gale, 
And  the  mocking-bird's  melody's  ringing 
From  bowers  that  circle  the  vale  ! 

Then  here's  to  the  land  that  we  live  in  ! — 

The  land  of   the  locust  and  lime  ! — 

And  a  song  for  the  sweet  stars  of  heaven, 

That  brighten  this  beautiful  clime  ! 

But  dearer  by  far  to  the  minstrel, 

Than  all  the  sweet  wealth  of  this  land, 

Are  the  maidens  who  dwell  in  its  bowers, 
By  mountain,  savanna,  and  strand  ! 

And  all  its  rich  trophies  were  given, 
As  tributes  of  beauty  to  these  ; 

And  these  are  the  stars  of  our  heaven, — 


14  SONGS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

The  flowers  that  gladden  the  breeze. 

Then  here's  to  the  land  that  we  live  in  ! — 

The  land  of  the  locust  and  lime  ! — 

And  a  song  for  the  sweet  stars  of  heaven, 

That  brighten  this  beautiful  clime  ! 

'Twas  hymned  by  a  bard;  that  the  planets 

Once,  charmed  from  their  passionate  home, 
Assumed  the  fair  features  of  women, 
And  dwelt  in  the  vallies  of  Eome  ! 
But  sure,  if   a  land  e'er  presented 
Temptation  to  angels,  'tis  ours, 
And  the  vision  of  song  was  invented 
From  forms  in  these  soft,  sunny  bowers  ! 
Then  here's  to  the  land  that  we  live  in  ! 

The  land  of  the  locust  and  lime  ! 
And  a  song  for  the  sweet  stars  of  heaven, 
That  brighten  this  beautiful  clime  ! 


THE  SEA— IN  CALM  AND  STORM. 

In  sunny  cove  and  crescent  dell, 
The  bright  green  waters  sink  and  swell ; 
The  dimpled  waves  lapse  on  the  strand, 
And,  rippling,  kiss  the  diamond  sand ; 
Far  out,  the  wild  gull  on  the  wave, 
Her  snowy  bosom  stoops  to  lave  ; 
Soft  glides  the  breeze,  and  all  the  sea 
Lies  lulled  in  sweet  tranquility  ! 

But  now  away,  the  waves  are  stirred, 
And,  shrieking,  darts  the  wild  sea-bird ; 
The  snow-caps  on  the  billows'  verge, 
Are  tossed  in  fury  by  the  surge  ; 
The  storm  is  up,  and  o'er  the  deep 
His  angry  pinions  rushing  sweep  ; 
The  breakers  crash  along  the  shore, 
And  echo  back  the  thunder's  roar  ! 

An  hour  agone,  upon  the  sea, 
A  gallant  ship  swung  merrily  ; 
The  morning  breeze,  in  odors  sweet, 
Just  dallied  with  her  canvass  sheet ; 


16  SONGS    OF    THE]    SOUTH. 

Light  hearts  leaned  o'er  her  pictured  side, 
To  watch  the  cleft  waves  'round  her  glide  ; 
And  song  and  laugh  rose  on  the  breeze, 
To  bless  the  Sabbath  of  the  seas  ! 

But  now  the  storm  !  the  mighty  storm  ! 
Bursts  'round  that  vessel's  fragile  form  ! 
Her  shivering  spars  are  snapped  in  twain ; 
Her  hulk  drives  madly  o'er  the  main  ; 
God  help  her  crew  !  their  gurgling  cry 
Peals  faintly  through  the  thundering  sky  ; 
She's  dashed  upon  the  craggy  shore, 
And  sinks  amid  the  breakers'  roar  ! 

'Tis  thus  the  sea  !  the  bright  blue  sea  ! 
The  home  of  high  hearts,  bold  and  free  ! 
Smiles  in  her  beauty,  like  a  bride, 
To  greet  the  tall  ship's  graceful  glide  ; 
But  lashed  to  fury  by  the  storm, 
What  mountain  waves  her  breast  deform  ! 
Man's  proudest  strength  quails  at  her  nod, 
The  image  of  an  angry  God  ! 


MAGNOLIA  GROVE. 

When  busy  day's  rude  cares  are  done, 
And  on  the  sea  descends  the  sun  ; 
When  hues  of  crimson,  green  and  gold, 
Thro'  twilight's  heaven  like  waves  are  rolled, 
And  sky  and  sea  and  bird  and  flower 
Feel  the  soft  influence  of  the  hour  : 
How  sweet  amid  thy  bowers  to  rove, 
With  one  we  love,  Magnolia  Grove  ! 

The  tall  trees  robed  in  spring-time's  green, 
Like  monarchs,  stand  amid  the  scene  ! 
While  broad  white  flowers  their  brows  begem, 
Each  like  a  jeweled  diadem  ! 
Below  the  honey-suckle  shines, 
'Mid  rich  festoons  of  glittering  vines, 
And  paroquets, — gay  babblers, — move 
Through  all  thine  aisles,  Magnolia  Grove  ! 

The  blue  Bay  sweetly  spreads  before, 
And  laves,  like  love,  that  beauteous  shore  ; 
Each  rippling  wave,  with  gentlest  speech, 
Makes  music  on  the  sandy  beach  ; 


18  HONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

While  in  the  deep,  'mid  clearer  skies, 
The  halcyon  scene,  reflected,  lies  : 
Could  fancy's  Edens  brighter  prove 
Than  thy  fair  bowers,  Magnolia  Grove  ? 

Bright  memories,  too,  to  thee  belong, 
And  through  thy  bowers,  at  twilight  throng. 
Here  roved  the  dark-eyed  Choctaw  maid, 
And  wove  her  lover's  wampum  braid  ; 
Here  came  the  laughing  girls  of  France, 
And  sunny  Spain,  with  love-lit  glance  ; 
Till,  last  of  all,  with  hearts  more  true, 
Came  eyes  that  gleam  in  Saxon  blue  : 
What  rapturous  scenes  of  joy  and  love, 
Hast  thou  beheld,  Magnolia  Grove  ! 

I,  too,  have  loved  at  eve  to  stray 
Along  the  margin  of    that  Bay, 
With  one  beloved, — or  to  recline 
On  some  enameled,  flowery  shrine  ; 
With  tales  of  love  to  please  her  ear, 
Or  list  the  red  bird  warbling  near  : 
'Tis  past ! — but  yet  where'er  I  rove, 
I'll  dream  of  thee,  Magnolia  Grove  ! 


THE  HEART  AND  BIRD. 

There  is  a  white  bird  of  the  sea, 

Beneath  our  Southern  sky, 
That  ever  soaring  seems  to  be, 

Where  tossing  breezes  fly  ; 
No  eye  has  ever  seen  him  rest ; 
No  fowler  knows  his  secret  nest ; 
Yet  far  away  in  starry  isles, 

That  gem  the  dimpled  wave, 
Where  blue-eyed  summer  ever  smiles, 

And  pearls  the  waters  pave  ; 
O'er  snowy  shells,  bright  flowers  above, 
He  keeps  his  hidden  nest  of  love  ! 

My  heart  is  like  that  Southern  bird  ; 

Its  pinions  cannot  rest 
Amid  these  scenes  where  naught  is  heard 

But  idle  song  and  jest ; 
It  sports  around  with  fluttering  wing  ; 
It  seems  a  gay  unthoughted  thing  : 


20  SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

But  far  away  it  has  a  shrine, 
Hid  from  the  vulgar  gaze, 

Where  nature's  brighest  beauties  shine 
Around  an  angel  face  : 

There,  like  that  restless  ocean-dove, 

It  keeps  its  hidden  nest  of  love  ! 

Yes,  dearest,  though  afar  from  me, 

Thou  art  my  only  joy, 
A  green  isle  in  life's  sunniest  sea, 

Far  from  this  wild  annoy. 
Oh,  would  my  weary  heart  could  fly, 
To  greet  thy  blue  beloved  eye  ! 
Then  bowered  in  bliss,  from  care  remote, 

Our  lives,  in  peace  and  pride, 
'  Like  yon  sun-tinted  barque,  should  float 

Adown  the  future's  tide  ! 
Bird  of   the  ocean  soar  above  ! 
Mine  is  a  sweeter  nest  of  love  ! 


NOT  AGAIN. 

Not  again,  not  again 
Can  my  heart  its  dream  renew  ! 
Brighter  forms  may  meet  my  view  ; 
Sweeter  voices  wander  by, 
With  a  dreamier  melody  ; 
Spirits  beckon  through  the  trees, 
White  robes  flashing  on  the  breeze  ; 
But  they  lure  and  tempt  in  vain  ; 
My  sad  heart  will  wear  its  chain 
Not  again  ! 

Not  again,  not  again  ! 
Wine  that  on  the  sand  is  poured 
To  the  cup  may  be  restored  : 
Fragrance,  on  the  wild  breeze  shed, 
Bless  the  floweret  whence  it  sped  ; 
Music  seek  the  broken  lute, 
Long  forgotten,  longer  mute  : 
But  the  heart  once  quelTd  by  pain, 
Can  its  early  bliss  attain 

Not  again ! 


22  «OX(JS    OF    THK    SOI'TH. 

Not  again,  not  again  ! 
Tempt  me  then  no  more,  sweet  girl, 
To  imbibe  the  liquid  pearl  ! 
Though  your  face  might  win  a  saint 
From  his  temple's  dim  restraint, 
Yet  my  heart,  while  owning  this, 
Turns  insensate  from  the  bliss  ; 
In  its  gloom  it  must  remain, 
Doomed  to  smile  in  beauty's  train 
Not  again  ! 

Not  again,  not  again  ! 
For,  in  bright  and  trusting  youth, 
Wounded  was  my  bosom's  truth  : 
O'er  my  heart  was  thrown  a  spell 
Stronger  than  weak  words  can  tell ; 
And  a  face,  as  angel's  bright, 
Darkened  Hope's  devoted  light  : 
Joy  to  me  since  then  is  vain, 
I  can  trust  Love's  syren  strain 
Not  again  ! 


THE  ROSE  OF  ALABAMA. 

I  loved,  in  boyhood's  happy  time, 
When  life  was  like  a  minstrel's  rhyme, 
And  cloudless  as  my  native  clime, 
The  Rose  of  Alabama. 
Oh;  lovely  rose  ! 

The  sweetest  flower  earth  knows, 
Is  the  Rose  of  Alabama  ! 

One  pleasant,  balmy  night  in  June, 
When  swung,  in  silvery  clouds,  the  moon, 
My  heart  awoke  love's  vesper  tune, 

For  Rose  of  Alabama  ! 

She  caught  the  strain,  and  to  the  bower, 
Impelled  by  love  and  music's  power, 
Stole  like  an  angel,  at  that  hour, 

The  Rose  of  Alabama  ! 

Beside  me  there  her  form  she  placed, 
My  ami  stole  gently  'round  her  waist, 
And  earth  seemed  with  new  beauty  graced, 
Bv  Rose  of  Alabama  } 


24  SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

The  breeze  and  streamlet  ceased  their  tone  ; 
Like  winged  gems  the  fire-flies  shone  ; 
The  flowers  gazed  envious  on  my  own 

Sweet  Kose  of  Alabama  ! 

'Tis  vain  our  mutual  vows  to  tell— 
One  strain  upon  my  plaintive  shell, 
And  then  I  bade  a  sad  farewell 

To  Rose  of  Alabama  ! 

Long  years  have  passed  ;  by  fortune  driven, 
I  wander  'neath  a  stranger  heaven  ; 
But,  ah  !  love's  ties  are  not  yet  riven 

From  Eose  of  Alabama  ! 

Hope  smiles  upon  my  pilgrim  way, 
Ere  long  my  feet  shall  homeward  stray, 
And  time  bring  round  my  nuptial  day 

With  Rose  of  Alabama  ! 

Then,  shrine-like,  in  my  native  land, 
Love's  Eden  !  shall  my  cottage  stand, 
With  happiness  on  every  hand  ! 

Sweet  Rose  of  Alabama  ! 


BEAUTY,  SONG  AND  LOVE. 

Long,  in  sorrow's  gloomy  night, 

Had  my  heart  deserted  lain, 
When  thy  face,  like  sweet  moonlight, 

Brightened  all  its  sky  again  ! 
There  was  round  thee  such  a  glow, 

Like  the  air  where  angels  move, 
That  my  heart  dawned  from  its  woe, 

And  all  was  beauty,  all  was  love  ! 

Once  I  knew  a  silver  tone, 

Sweeter  than  an  angel's  hymn, — 
It  from  earth  methought  had  flown, 

Flown  to  join  the  seraphim  ! 
But  thy  voice  recalled  the  spell, 

Melody  unmatched  above, — 
On  my  heart  its  influence  fell, 

And  all  was  music,  all  was  love  ! 

Shall  that  gloom  again  return  ? 
Shall  this  music  cease  from  me  ? 


26  SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Is  my  heart  aye  doomed  to  learn, 

Beauty's  smile  is  misery  ? 
Lady  fair,  the  answer — thine, 

Thine  the  destiny  to  prove  ; 
Frown,  my  heart  will  cease  to  shine — 

But  smile, — 'tis  music,  light  and  love  ! 


THE  GOLDEN  BOWL   IS  BROKEN. 

The  golden  bowl  is  broken, 

That  held  love's  rosy  wine  ; 
The  last  fond  words  are  spoken, 

That  hailed  thee  once  as  mine : 
We're  fated  now  to  sever, 

Yet  on  the  land  or  sea, 
By  day  or  night,  forever, 

My  heart  will  kneel  to  thee  ! 

Though  the  golden  bowl  be  broken, 
My  heart  will  kneel  to  thee  ! 

The  silver  chord  is  silent, 

That  thrilled  beneath  thy  hand  ; 
As  in  some  desert  island, 

'Mid  fallen  hopes  I  stand  ! 
But  yet  where'er  I  wander, 

Thy  beauty  I  shall  see, 
And  as  the  past,  I  ponder, 

My  heart  will  kneel  to  thee  ! 

Though  the  silver  chord  be  silent, 
My  heart  will  kneel  to  thee  ! 


28  SONGS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Oh  !  each  imperfect  token 

Is  vain  my  love  to  tell ; 
Though  the  golden  bowl  be  broken, 

And  the  silver  chord  as  well ; 
Fond  memory  will  cherish 

The  dreams  so  dear  to  me, 
And  till  each  pulse  shall  perish, 

My  heart  will  kneel  to  thee  ! 

Though  the  golden  bowl  be  broken, 
My  heart  will  kneel  to  thee. 


THE  BELLE  OF  MOBILE. 

The  roses  in  Spring,  their  rich  fragrance  may  fling, 
And  beauty  and  song  on  the  senses  may  steal, 

But  there's  naught  in  the  air,  or  the  earth  can  compare, 
Young  and  lovely  and  fair,  with  the  Belle  of  Mobile  ! 

Her  lips  and  her  eyes  are  like  gems  from  the  skies  ; 

Some  seraph  has  set  on  her  forehead  his  seal ; 
And  a  radiant  grace,  time  can  never  displace, 

Is  enthroned  on  the  face  of  the  Belle  of  Mobile  ! 

Through  dreams  of  delight,  in  some  soft  summer  night, 
Bright  angels  descending,  their  beauty  reveal ; 

But  more  glowing  and  warm,  and  more  rich  in  each  charm,' 
Is  the  ripe  rounded  form  of  the  Belle  of  Mobile  ! 

The  raptures  of  song  to  her  voice  belong, 

Whose  tones  to  your  heart  will  enchantingly  steal : 

While  the  spells  of  her  mind,  by  each  virtue  refined, 
Will  the  witchery  bind  of  the  Belle  of  Mobile  ! 


30  SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

The  East  and  the  West  are  of  fair  forms  possessed  ; 

The  hills  of  the  Northland  proud  maidens  conceal ; 
But  in  beauty  and  soul,  far  excelling  the  whole, 

Is  the  lovely  Creole,  the  bright  Belle  of  Mobile  ! 


"LOOK  NOT  ON  THE  WINE  WHEN  IT 
IS  KED." 

A    TEMPERANCE    SONG. 

Oh  !  look  not  on  the  wine  when  red — • 
When  sparkling  in  the  crystal  cup — 

For  though  bright  hues  are  'round  it  spread, 
Twill  burn  thy  priceless  spirit  up  ! 

The  dark-browed  queen  of  Egypt  gave 

Her  richest  jewels  to  its  wave  ; 

And,  as  they  perished,  in  the  bowl 

Will  sink  the  treasures  of  thy  soul ! 

Oh,  look  not  on  the  crimson  wine  ! 

Let  not  its  waters  kiss  thy  lips  ; 
For,  in  their  gay,  delusive  shine, 

There's  hidden  death  for  him  who  sips  ! 
The  olden  fount,  the  prophet  viewed, 
Gleamed  brightly  in  the  solitude  ; 
But  soon,  for  him  who  drank,  a  grave 
Was  found  by  Marah's  bitter  wave  ! 

Oh,  look  not  on  the  treacherous  wine, 
When  mantling  in  the  jeweled  bowl  ; 


32  SONGS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Though  wreaths  and  flowers  around  it  twine, 

They  breathe  a  poison  on  the  soul ! 
The  orient  Upas  proudly  waves 
Its  foliage  o'er  a  land  of  graves  ! 
And  thus  the  flower- wreathed  goblet's  breath 
Brings  desolation,  woe,  and  death  ! 

Oh,  look  not  on  the  tempting  wine  ! 

Pass  not  beneath  its  syren  rod, 
Nor  bow  before  its  daemon  shrine, 

The  image  of  creation's  God  ! 
It  is  the  fabled  Circe  bowl 
That  dwarfed  the  stature,  drowned  the  soul, 
And,  by  its  sorcery,  fell  though  mute, 
Transformed  the  angel  to  the  brute  ! 

Oh,  look  not  on  the  wine  when  red  ! 

It  is  the  deadliest  human  foe  ; 
It  wreathes  a  cypress  'round  the  head, 

And  lays  the  proudest  trophies  low  ! 
It  darkens  virtue,  poisons  health, 
Blasts  peace  and  hope,  and  robs  of  wealth  ; 
Crime,  Pain,  and  Famine  'round  it  tread — 
Then  look  not  on  the  wine  when  red  ! 


A  VALENTINE. 

The  morning  beams  are  sprinkling 

With  gems,  the  dewy  green  ; 
The  early  bells  are  tinkling, 

Where  grazing  herds  are  seen  ; 
Bright  birds  are  swiftly  winging 

Their  circling  flights  above, 
And  eveiy  grove  is  ringing 
With  melodies  of  love  ! 

Then,  sweet  one,  kindly  listen 
Oh,  list  this  song  of  mine  ! 
And,  as  thy  blue  eyes  glisten, 
Make  me  thy  Valentine  ! 

How  sweet  this  golden  morning  ! 

This  Love-Day  of  the  year  ! 
When,  nature's  face  adorning, 

The  brightest  smiles  appear  ! 
When  love  is  made  a  duty, 

From  immemorial  time, 
And,  ever,  generous  beauty 

Has  loved  the  minstrel's  rhyme  ! 


34  SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Then,  sweet  one,  kindly  listen  ! 

Oh,  list  this  song  of  mine  ! 
And,  as  thy  blue  eyes  glisten, 

Own  me,  thy  Valentine! 

Thy  beauty  is  the  brightest 

Of  all  beheld  to-day  : 
Thy  footstep  is  the  lightest 

That  o'er  the  flowers  may  stray ; 
Love  never  found  a  dwelling 

More  gentle  than  thy  heart ; 
All  other  forms  excelling, 
Love's  Paragon  thou  art  ! 

Then,  sweet  one,  kindly  listen  ! 

Oh,  list  this  song  of  mine  ! 
And,  as  thy  blue  eyes  glisten, 
Smile  on  thy  Valentine! 

This  land  of  myrtle  blossoms, 
This  clime  of  sun  and  soul, 

Where  love,  o'er  swelling  bosoms, 
Exerts  supreme  control, 

Would  be  all  cold  and  lonely, 
In  vain  its  flowers  and  rays, 


SONGS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  35 

If  from,  my  worship,  only 
Was  hid  thine  angel  face  ! 

Then,  sweet  one,  kindly  listen  ! 

Oh,  list  this  song  of  mine  ! 
And,  as  thy  blue  eyes  glisten, 
Oh,  bless  thy  Valentine! 


SONG  AT  THE  BAR  DINNER. 

Ye  sons  of  Blackstone,  Chitty,  Coke, 

Of  Marshall,  Kent,  and  Story, 
Come  join  awhile  in  song  and  joke, 

In  mirth  and  festive  glory  : 
Put  by  your  summons,  writs  and  pleas, 

Your  briefs  and  declarations, 
And  for  a  season,  take  your  ease 

In  feastings  and  libations  ! 

What  though  your  lady-love,  the  Law, 

Is  grave,  sedate  and  solemn, 
And  seldom  can  refreshment  draw 

But  from  some  musty  volume  : — 
Yet  she,  herself,  will  now  decline 

Each  dull  and  knotty  question, — 
Desert  her  Viner,  for  the  Vine, 

The  Digest,  for  digestion  ! 

The  drone,  who,  over  Doe  and  Roe, 

Can  only  feed  his  fancies, 
Will  find  at  last  his  cake  all  dougli, — 

His  readings  nil  ro-mances  : 


SONGS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  37 

But  he,  who  bends  o'er  "  cakes  and  ale," 

As  well  as  Clay,  and  Aikin, 
Will  prove  himself  both  Swift  and  Hale, 

And  doubly  "  save  his  Bacon  !" 

Then  put  the  green  bag  in  its  place, — 

Light  with  your  tape  these  tapers, — 
Exchange  your  cases  for  this  case 

Of  wines,  cigars,  and  capers  : 
"  A  deed,"  indeed,  "  is  doing  now," 

Worth  all  your  deeds  indented, — 
Reporters  here  to  porters  bow, — 

Don't  be  non  est  invent-ed  ! 


Yl 


Come  file  your  pleas  before  this  Court, 

Where  all  my  please  on  trial, — 
You  can't  demur,  not  e'en  in  short, 

So  come, — there's  no  denial : 
This  is  the  Bar, — straight  traverse  join,- 

Y our  fee  is  in  your  pocket, — 
Crave  oyer  quickly,  of — this  wine, — 

Or — strike  him  from  the  docket ! 

These  dishes  are  in  season  all, 
So  make  at  once  your  seizin — 


38  SONGS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

To  disobey  "Laiv's  serious  call/' 

Is  mutiny — nay,  treason  : 
You  can't  desert  without  dessert — 

'  T would  shame  your  high  profession — 
So  while  of  mirth,  we  make  profert, 

Reduce  it  to  possession  ! 

The  sons  of  Themis  in  Mobile — 

A  numerous  generation — 
Once  more  have  met,  for  common  weal, 

To  keep  this  celebration  : 
Grave  judges  now  desert  the  Bench, 

Old  lawyers  leave  their  cases, 
And  students  turn  from  Norman-French, 

To  meet  with  merry  faces  ! 

Then  throw  the  dull  reports  aside — 

Let  Johnson  sleep  with  Peters — 
Let  Porter  prove  a  liquid  tide, 

And  Stuart  feast  the  eaters  ! 
One  day  we'll  give  to  song  and  wit, 

Ad  mala  usque  ovo, 
And  then  resume  the  brief  and  writ, 

And  try  the  Law,  de  ftovo. 


OH  !  COME  BACK  SOON. 

Oh,  come  back  soon,  oh,  come  back  soon ! 

My  heart  is  sad  without  thee, 
There  is  no  light  in  sun  or  moon, 

So  sweet  as  that  about  thee. 
The  sky  looks  cold,  the  breezes  sigh, 

Each  scene  is  dark  and  lonely  ; 
Earth  holds  for  me  no  peace  or  joy, 

But  in  thy  presence  only  ! 

Oh,  come  back  soon,  oh,  come  back  soon  ! 

Though  other  hearts  may  greet  thee, 
With  smile  and  song  and  pleasure's  tune, 

None  half  so  fond  will  meet  thee. 
Tho'  kind  and  fervent  they  may  prove, 

When  festal  cups  are  flowing, 
They  ne'er  can  feel  the  constant  love 

That  in  my  breast  is  glowing  ! 

Oh,  come  back  soon,  oh,  come  back  soon, 
Back  to  these  sylvan  bowers  ; 


40  SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

When  thou  art  far,  there  is  no  boon 
Can  cheer  the  lonely  hours. 

Return  and  they  will  glide  away, 
Like  dreams  of  sweetest  pleasure, 

And  thou  shalt  prove  the  strength  of  love 
No  earthly  bounds  can  measure. 


DIRGE. 

Sung  at  the  Obsequies  to  Henry  Clay,  at  Mobile. 

With  drooping  flag,  with  muffled  drum, 
Amid  a  nation's  gloom  we  come, — 
For,  from  the  earth,  has  passed  away 
The  patriot  soul  of  HENRY  CLAY. 

As  children  'round  a  parent  meet, 
And,  sobbing,  grasp  his  winding  sheet, 
So  millions  now,  overwhelmed  with  grief, 
Bewail  their  loved,  their  fallen  chief. 

Long  'mid  our  gallant,  great  and  good, 
Like  WASHINGTON,  he  nobly  stood, 
While,  trembling  on  his  burning  tongue, 
Truth,  justice,  peace  and  freedom  hung. 

Thrice,  when  our  storm-tossed  Ship  of  State 
Seemed  sinking  with  its  priceless  freight, 
His  guardian  spirit,  firm  and  free, 
Walked  o'er  our  troubled  Galilee  ! 


42  BONGS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Through  all  the  world,  his  glorious  name 
Is  whispered  by  the  lips  of  fame  ; 
For  long,  in  every  kindling  zone, 
His  voice  was  Freedom's  bugle-tone. 

The  Greek  girl,  kneeling  by  her  seas, 

Deemed  him  a  new  Demosthenes, 

And  young  Bolivar's  patriot  ray 

Was,  light-like,  caught  from  HENRY  CLAY. 

Oh  Father,  Chieftain,  Statesman,  Sage, 
The  pride,  the  glory  of  our  age,  — 
Athwart  our  land  a  gloom  is  spread, 
Our  country's  Second  Sire  is  dead  ! 

Well  may  yon  bannered  stars  grow  dim, 
Yon  stooping  eagle  mourn  for  him, 
For  when  such  sunlike  spirits  die, 
Darkness  should  veil  the  land  and 


Yet  still  his  fame  shall  shine  through  years, 
The  Iris  of  our  country's  tears,  — 
And  from  our  hearts  ne'er  fade  away 
The  deathless  name  of  HENRY  CLAY. 


ODE  IN  MEMORY  OF  WEBSTER. 

Sung  at  his  Obsequies  in  Mobile. 

From  the  sky  of  our  country,  a  sun  has  descended  ! 

A  pillar  has  fallen  in  Liberty's  fane  : 
The  Pharos,  whose  beams  o'er  the  ocean  extended, 

No  longer  is  seen  by  the  desolate  main  ! 
Thick  darkness  and  sorrow  encompass  the  nation, 

The  Genius  of  Freedom  disconsolate  sighs, 
And  bends,  with  her  children,  in  deep  tribulation, 

Around  the  low  couch  where  her  champion  lies  ! 

Great  WEBSTER  has  fallen — the  grand  and  the  peerless, 

The  statesman  with  love  to  no  section  confined, 
The  orator  matchless,  the  patriot  fearless, 

The  giant  of  learning,  the  Titan  of  mind. 
The  Pride  of  the  Nation  in  silence  reposes} 

And  o'er  his  pale  form  her  last  tribute  she  gives, 
But  still,  as  with  sadness,  his  coffin  she  closes, 

She  feels  his  own  words,  He  still  lives  !  He  still  lives ! 


44  SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

He  lives  on  the  pages  of  freedom  forever, 

He  lives  in  the  deathless  dominion  of  mind, 
He  lives  in  his  lofty  conceptions  that  never 

Can  lade  from  the  homage  or  love  of  mankind 
The  grave  unto  him  was  the  portal  to  glory, 

His  fame  is  a  pyramid  piled  to  the  sky, 
And  never,  while  greatness  is  cherished  in  story, 

The  genius  and  virtues  of  WEBSTER  can  die  ! 


THE  SWAN. 

O'er  the  lake,  how  sweetly  gliding, 

Yonder  proud  and  snowy  swan, 
Every  restless  billow  chiding, 

Moves  in  graceful  beauty  on  ! 
So,  above  the  tides  of  feeling, — 

Tides  that  in  my  bosom  move, — 
Passion's  rude  commotion  stilling, — 

Moves  thy  spirit,  Lady-Love  ! 

'Round  that  swan,  what  light  and  beauty 

Shine  along  the  am'rous  tide, 
Brightening  all  things  with  their  presence' 

Sky,  and  wave,  and  forest-side  ! 
So,  within  my  lonely  bosom, — 

Soft  as  moonlight  from  above, — 
Beams  a  mild,  celestial  halo 

'Round  thy  spirit,  Lady-Love  ! 

Now,  with  rich,  exultant  music, 

List  !  von  fair  bird  charms  the  scene  ! 


46 


SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Joy  receiving,— joy  conferring, — 
Song  and  beauty's  magic  queen  ! 

Thus,  to  crown  thine  own  enchantment, 
Like  some  seraph  from  above, 

Fill  my  heart  with  hope's  glad  anthems, 
Beauteous  spirit,  Lady-Love  ! 


DO  I  LOVE  THEE  ? 

Do  I  love  thee  ? — Ask  the  flowers 
If  they  love  the  breath  of  Spring, — 

Ask  them  if  the  morning  hours 

Fragrant  dew  and  freshness  bring, — 

List  their  answer  ! — Such  to  me 

Is  the  love  I  feel  for  thee  ! 

Do  I  love  thee  ? — Does  the  rover, 
Wrecked  upon  the  stormy  strand, 

Love,  when  help  and  hope  were  over, 
Safely  on  the  shore  to  stand  ? 

So  I  love  to  cling  to  thee, 

Love's  fair  isle  in  sorrow's  sea  ! 

Do  I  love  thee  ? — Are  the  places 

Angel-trod,  to  pilgrims  dear  ? 
Is  the  cool  and  green  oasis 

Welcome  in  the  desert  drear  ? 
Fonder  is  my  love  for  thee,— ^ 
Dearer  is  thv  love  to  me. 


48  SONGS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Do  I  love  thee  ? — If  devotion 
Be  of  love  the  surest  test, — 

If  the  rivers  love  the  ocean, 

Drawn  by  instinct  to  its  breast, — 

Then  my  heart  in  homage  see, — 

All  its  currents  flow  to  thee  ! 


CHOCTAW  MELODIES. 


A  MOTHER'S  DIRGE  FOR  HER  INFANT. 

In  a  small  grove  of  dogwood  trees, 

Whose  spring-time  flowers  perfumed  the  breeze, 

By  Pascagoula's  tawny  wave, 

There  was  a  little  new-made  grave. 

And  there  above  the  humble  mound 

A  youthful  mother  oft  was  found, 

Who  thus,  in  sad  and  frantic  strains, 

Wept  o'er  her  first-born  babe's  remains  : 

"  Now  cradled  in  the  damp  cold  ground, 

My  little  warior  lies  ; 
Now  he  is  bound  with  wampum  round, 

And  shut  his  sparkling  eyes  : 
Yet  why,  above  his  place  of  sleep, — 
Why  should  I  weep  ? 


50  SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

"  The  little  bird,  when  it  is  grown, 

Must  leave  its  native  nest, 
'Mid  snares  and  foes  to  soar  alone, 

By  want  and  care  distrest ; 
And  oft  the  cruel  hunter's  dart 
Will  pierce  its  heart. 

"  But  thou,  sweet  one,  hast  shed  no  tears, 

Nor  felt  the  woes  of  life  ; 
Thy  spirit,  undisturbed  by  fears, 

By  anguish  and  by  strife, 
To  golden  groves  has  soared  above, 
Bird  of  my  love ! 

"Ah  !  hadst  thou  only  staid  below, 

What  grace  and  strength  were  thine, 
To  chase  the  dear,  to  bend  the  bow, 

To  draw  the  fisher's  line  ! 
Or  bravely  in  the  battle-field 
The  club  to  wield  ! 

"  Yet  why  should  I  lament  thy  doom  ? 

The  bud,  that  in  the  Spring-time  dies, 
Bears  all  its  bloom  and  sweet  perfume 
To  spirits  in  the  skies  ! 


SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  51 

A  heavenly  blossom  now  thou  art, 
Bud  of  my  heart  ! 

"  But  oh  thou  wert  to  young  to  go, — 

Thy  little  tender  feet 
No  father's  guidance  now  can  know, 

No  mother's  counsel  meet. 
Who  now  will  nurse  thy  fragile  form, 
And  keep  thee  warm  ? 

"Ah !  yes,  I  hear  a  spirit  say 
I  will  protect  him  here — 
Who  from  their  cradles  pass  away, 

To  us  are  ever  dear. 
Then  why  my  babe  above  thy  sleep — 
Why  should  I  weep  ?" 


n. 


[From  the  French  of  Chateaubriand.] 

The  Indian  maiden  turned  at  eve, 
In  exiled  loneliness  to  grieve, 


52  SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

And  shed,  by  Mississippi's  side, 
Her  tears  upon  its  turbid  tide  ; 
For  she  had  left  in  passion's  hours, 
Her  Florida's  beloved  bowers, 
And  thus,  amid  the  stranger  throng, 
Poured  forth  an  exile's  plaintive  song  : 


"  Oh,  happy  they  who  ne'er  have  seen 

The  smoke  of  alien  fires  ! 
Nor  guests  at  other  feasts  have  been, 

Than  their  own  sires'! 
Ah  !  should  the  blue-jay  of  the  West 

Say  to  the  Southern  nonpareil, 
( Why  not  amid  our  branches  rest  ? 

Why  only  mourning  numbers  tell  ? 
Have  we  not  limpid  waters  here — 

Delightful  shades,  abundant  food, 
And  flowery  fields,  and  orchards  fair, 
As  you  have  in  your  native  wood  ?' 
Yet  would  the  stray  bird  answer  then, 

1  My  nest  is  in  the  jasmine  grove  ! 
Oh,  give  my  golden  skies  agen, 

And  bright  savannahs  that  I  love  !' 


SONGS   OF    THE   SOUTH.  53 

"  Oh,  happy  they  who  ne'er  have  seen 

The  smoke  of  alien  fires, 
Nor  guests  at  other  feasts  have  been, 

Than  their  own  sires' ! 
When,  after  hours  of  toil  and  pain, 

The  weary  traveler  sinks  at  night, 
And  sees  anear  him,  on  the  plain, 

Fair  cottages  with  many  a  light ; 
In  vain  he  views  their  pleasant  glow — 

No  hospitable  fare  they  yield — 
For,  should  he  enter  with  his  bow, 

All  welcome  is  at  once  concealed  ; 
Again  his  sturdy  bow  he  takes, 

And,  weak,  insulted,  turns  away, 
And  totters  on  through  tangled  brakes, 

And  deserts  wide  till  dawn  of  day. 


"  Oh,  happy  they  who  ne'er  have  seen 

Tne  smoke  of  alien  fires, 
Nor  guests  at  other  feasts  have  been, 

Than  their  own  sires'! 
Dear  stories  round  the  social  hearth ! 
Soft  songs  with  tenderest  feelings  rife ! 


54  SONGS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Pure  deeds  of  love,  and  tones  of  mirth, 

So  needful  in  this  weary  life  ! — 
Ye,  ye  have  filled  the  days  of  those 

Who  ne'er  their  parent  land  have  left, — 
Who  ne'er  have  been,  'mid  stranger  foes, 

Of  all  that's  best  on  earth  bereft ! 
They  live  in  bliss,  and  when  life  ends, 

Their  graves  are  in  their  mother's  breast ; 
By  setting  suns  and  tears  of  friends, 
And  fair  religion  sweetly  blest ! 

Oh,  happy  they  who  ne'er  have  seen 

The  smoke  of  alien  fires, 
Nor  guests  at  other  feasts  have  been, 
Than  their  own  sires'!" 


OH,  DO  NOT  CEASE  TO  LOVE  ME. 

Oh,  do  not  cease  to  love  me  ! 

My  heart  so  clings  to  thee, 
That  not  the  heavens  above  me, 

Nor  wealth  of  earth  and  sea, 
Nor  all  the  starry  flowers, 
In  Spring-time's  golden  hours, 

That  bloom  along  the  lea, 

Are  half  so  dear  to  me  ! 

Oh,  do  not  cease  to  love  me  ! 

For  many  weary  years, 
Thy  smile  has  shone  above  me, 

The  rainbow  of  my  tears  ! 
Thy  love  has  been  my  treasure, — 
My  bosom's  only  pleasure, — 

Its  light  'mid  griefs  and  fears, 

For  many  weary  years  ! 

Oh,  do  not  cease  to  love  me  ! 
Let  wealth  and  fame  depart, — 


56  SONGS   OF   THE   SOUTH. 

All  other  joys  that  move  me, 
Desert  my  lonely  heart, — 
But,  day-spring  of  my  gladness, 
My  charm  in  every  sadness, 
Let  not  thy  love  depart, 
Bright  mistress  of  my  heart ! 


THE  HOMES  OF  ALABAMA. 


The  homes  of  Alabama, 

How  beautiful  they  rise, 
Throughout  her  queenly  forest  realm, 

Beneath  her  smiling  skies  ! 
The  richest  odors  fill  the  breeze, 

Her  vallies  teem  with  wealth, 
And  the  homes  of  Alabama, 

Are  the  rosy  homes  of  health  ! 

n. 

The  homes  of  Alabama, — 

The  cottage  and  the  hall, — 
Her  institutions  spread  alike 

A  guardian  care  o'er  all  ! — 
No  titled  fopling  spurns  aside 

The  peasant  from  his  way, 
But  the  homes  of  Alabama 

Are  blessed  by  equal  sway  ! 


58  SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

III. 

The  homes  of  Alabama, 

The  prairie's  flowery  bed, — 
The  broad  fields  decked  with  snowy  wreaths,- 

The  mountain's  star-crowned  head  : 
The  forest  and  the  fertile  soil, 

Each,  all,  their  tributes  bring, 
And  the  homes  of  Alabama, 

Teem  with  the  offering  ! 

IV. 

The  homes  of  Alabama, 

The  shrines  of  Faith  and  Love, 
Where  honest  hearts  forever  lift 

Their  incense-prayers  above  ! 
Where  science,  art  and  peace  combine 

To  scatter  bliss  around, 
And  make  the  once  rude  savage  wastes 

Now  consecrated  ground  ! 

v. 

The  homes  of  Alabama, 

Homes  of  the  Brave  and  Free, — 


SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  59 

Stout  hearts  beneath  their  cabin  roofs 

Pulsate  with  liberty  ! 
They  scorn  the  despot's  iron  rule, 

The  zealot's  galling  chain, — 
And  the  homes  of  Alabama 

Shall  ever  free  remain  ! 

VI. 

The  homes  of  Alabama, 

Let  the  tyrant  keep  his  own, 
The  bigot  nurse  his  narrow  creed, 

But  not  pollute  her  zone  ! 
Should  War  and  Frenzy  ever  strive 

To  crash  her  strength,  they'll  feel 
That  the  homes  of  Alabama 

Are  filled  by  hearts  of  steel ! 


THE  MOTHERS  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

The  Mothers  of  the  South  ! 

In  the  lurid  morn  of  Battle, 
When,  from  the  cannon's  mouth, 

Came  the  thunder's  deadly  rattle, — 
Their  fair  and  fragile  forms 

Shrank  not,  in  terror,  from  us, 
But, — rainbows  on  the  storms  ! — 

Still  gave  us  freedom's  promise  ! 
Then  pledge,  to-night,  their  memories  bright, 

Our  noble  Southern  mothers  ! 
Who  in  the  strife, — maid,  matron,  wife, — 
Stood  by  their  sons  and  brothers  ! 

On  Camden's  fatal  plain, 

At  Eutaw  and  Savannah, 
The  star  of  freedom's  train 

Was  beauty's  woven  banner  ! 
Throughout  the  night  of  woe, 

That  flag  was  still  resplendent, 
And  many  a  son  fell  low, 

To  keep  its  folds  ascendant ! 


SOXGS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  61 

Then  pledge,  to-night,  their  memories  bright, 

Our  noble  Southern  mothers  ! 
Who  in  the  strife, — maid,  matron,  wife, — 

Stood  by  their  sons  and  brothers  ! 

Oh,  yes  !  we'll  keep  their  names 

Embalmed  in  song  and  story, — 
Those  lion-hearted  dames, 

Who  cradled  freedom's  glory  : 
And,  should  the  strife  of  war 

E'er  tinge  again  our  waters, 
We'll  find,  our  hearts  to  cheer, 

Those  matrons  in  their  daughters  ! 
Then  pledge,  to-night,  their  memories  bright, 

Our  noble  Southern  mothers  ! 
Who  in  the  strife, — maid,  matron,  wife, — 
Stood  by  their  sons  and  bro there ! 


ANACREONTIC. 

Come,  fill  up  the  cup  to  the  girl  you  love  best ! 
To  her  eyes,  and  her  lips,  and  her  innocent  breast : 
To  her  eyes,  that,  as  soft  as  these  young  bubbles  shine, 
That  sparkle  and  float  through  the  gold  of  this  wine  : 
To  her  lips  that  are  dewed  with  a  nectar  of  bliss, — 
Like  roses  in  Spring-time,  more  fragrant  than  this  : 
And  her  innocent  breast,  where  the  young  Virtues  keep, 
'Neath  snow-heaving  billows,  a  home  in  the  deep  ! 
Then  fill  up  the  cup, 

With  pleasure  and  zest, 
And  pledge,  in  a  bumper, 

The  girl  you  love  best ! 

Oh  !  who  for  the  pleasures  of  wealth  would  repine  ! 

If  blest  with  her  heart, — love's  delicate  shrine  ! 

A  vine-trellised  cot,  by  the  side  of  a  stream, 

In  the  light  of  her  smiles,  a  proud  palace  would  seem  ! 

And,  life,  like  the  song  that  she  warbled  at  even, 

the  hush  of  the  sunset,  glide  gently  to  heaven  ! 


SONGS    OF    THE   SOUTH.  63 

Ah  !  pleasure  is  found  by  those  spirits  alone, 
Who  melt,  like  twin-streams  of  the  valley,  in  one  ! 
Then  fill  up  the  cup,  &c. 

The  scholar  may  burn  for  the  laurels  of  fame, 
The  altar  will  sink  'neath  the  heat  of  the  flame  : 
The  hero  may  yearn  for  posterity's  smile, — 
His  heart  will  be  lonely  and  starless  the  while  : 
True  bliss,  whether  here  or  in  heaven  above, 
Is  alone  to  be  found  with  the  angels  we  love  ! 
One  kiss  from  the  lips  of  fond  Woman  is  worth 
All  the  laurels  of  fame,  or  the  plaudits  of  earth  ! 
Then  fill  up  the  cup,  &c. 

Yes  !  a  bumper  to  beauty  !  and  oh,  as  you  sip, 
Let  the  bright  waters  linger  awhile  on  your  lip  : 
The  queen  of  the  East  in  her  cup  dropt  a  pearl, 
But  here  is  the  heart  of  your  beautiful  girl  ! 
Her  eyes  shed  their  smiles  through  these  waters  of  bliss, 
And  you  dream,  as  you  drink,  of  the  first  stolen  kiss  ! 
Oh,  soon  may  that  dream  prove  a  vision  of  truth, 
And  beauty  recline  on  the  bosom  of  Youth  !   . 
Then  fill  up  the  cup,  &c. 


THE  QUEEN  OF   MAY. 

Bring  flowers  to  crown  the  lovely  Queen  ! 

Bring  flowers  from  vale  and  hill, — 
Bring  flowers  from  grove,  and  garden  green, 

And  from  each  sylvan  rill  ! 
For,  oh,  it  is  a  joyous  time, — 

A  bright  and  festal  day, — 
And  fairest  flowers,  in  wreaths,  should  twine, 

To  crown  the  Queen  of  May  ! 

How  gaily  leaps  the  spirit  forth, 

On  such  a  morn  as  this  ! 
And  sky,  and  wave,  and  smiling  earth 

Are  redolent  of  bliss ! 
Spring's  sweetest  honors  spread  around, 

4nd  balmy  breezes  play, — 
And  many  a  glad  and  lovely  sound 

Attends  the  Queen  of  May  ! 

From  distant  hill, —  from  nearer  grove, 
The  feathered  minstrels  sing 


SONGS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  65 

Their  roundelays  of  bliss  and  love, — 

The  symphony  of  Spring ! 
Their  songs  gush  out,  with  sweetest  tone, 

Upon  this  triumph  day, 
And  gladly  mingle  with  our  own, 

To  hail  the  Queen  of  May  ! 

How  brightly  shine  the  Day-God's  beams  ! 

How  beautiful  the  sky 
How  lovely  glance  the  laughing  streams, 

In  snow  and  silver,  by  ! 
The  bowers  are  waving  fresh  and  green, 

The  flowers  are  fair  and  gay, — 
Though  all  are  lovely,  none  are  seen, 

Fair  as  the  Queen  of  May  ! 

Then  pour  the  heart's  glad  music  out, 

In  honor  to  our  Queen, — 
And  hail,  with  many  a  joyous  shout, 

Th'  enchantress  of  the  scene  : 
Let  flowers  around  her  path  be  spread, 

While  we  our  homage  pay, 
And  place  this  wreath  upon  her  head, 

Our  own,  sweet  Queen  of  May  ! 


THE  KOSE  OF  LOYE. 

[From  Anacreon.] 

The  Kose  of  Love !  oh  let  us  twine 
Its  pictured  blossoms  'round  the  bowl ! 

And  deck  our  brows  with  wreaths  divine, 
To  shed  aroma  on  the  soul ! — 

Then  while  with  merry  hearts  we  laugh, 

Will  breathe  its  fragrance  as  we  quaff  ! 

Sweet  Rose  ! — thou  are  Earth's  loveliest  flower, 
The  pride  and  darling  of  the  Spring  !  — 

The  Gods  themselves  confess  thy  power, 
And  poet-lips  thy  praises  sing. 

With  thee  young  Cupid  crowns  his  curls 

When  dancing  with  the  graceful  girls  ! 

Then  crown  me  Bacchus,  with  the  rose  ! 

And,  making  music  at  thy  shrine, 
Some  beauteous  maiden  I  will  choose, 

Whose  rounded  breast  shall  swell  to  mine. 
And  'neath  the  flowers  that  o'er  us  glance 
In  rosy  wreaths,  with  her  I'll  dance  ! 


A  TROUBADOUR  SONG. 

The  harp,  I  strung  in  early  youth, 

Hath  lain  in  dust  so  long, 
That  it  hath  lost,  I  fear,  in  sooth, 

The  cunning  art  of  song  : 
Yet,  gentle  one,  I  wake  once  more 

Its  chords,  at  thy  command, 
And  sing,  like  ancient  Troubadour, 

The  Ladye  of  our  Land  ! 

Ah,  had  the  days  of  Chivalry 

Not  faded  long  ago, 
What  feuds  would  be,  fail*  one,  for  thee  ! — 

Brave  feuds  for  thee,  I  trow  ! 
Than  many  a  Knight  would  seek  the  field, 

Thy  colors  in  his  crest, 
Thy  name  inscribed  upon  his  shield, — 

The  Loveliest  and  the  Best ! 

And  many  a  Minstrel  then  would  tune 
The  harp  of  love  for  thee, 


68  SONGS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

And  seek,  by  song,  to  win  the  boon, 
Beneath  the  moonlight  tree  : 

And  many  a  Pilgrim  too  would  come, 
With  palm-leaf  in  his  hand, 

And  ask  thy  smiles  to  make  it  bloom, 
Sweet  Ladye  of  our  Land  ! 

But  ah,  those  pictured  times  have  gone,- 

The  days  of  old  Komance  ! — 
And  woman's  love  no  more  is  won 

By  palnirleaf,  lyre,  or  lance  : 
We  have  a  plainer  way  with  us, — 

More  easy  if  less  grand, 
We  never  kick  up  such  a  fuss 

About  a  Ladye's  hand  ! 

And  yet,  fair  one,  there's  many  a  heart 

Beneath  its  doublet  plain, 
That  holds  for  thee  as  warm  a  part 

As  ever  Knight  did  feign  ; 
And  one  fond  Minstrel  lingers  yet, 

Who  near  thee,  aye,  would  stand, 
And  sing  thy  gentle  loveliness, 

Sweet  Ladye  of  our  Land  ! 


BE  HUSHED  THE  HARP  ! 

Be  hushed  the  harp  ! — its  notes  are  sad, 

And  sorrow  breathes  in  every  strain, — 
It  tells  of  joys,  whose  light  has  fled 

And  hopes  that  ne'er  can  dawn  again  ! — 
When  last  I  heard  that  thrilling  tone, 

My  heart  was  like  the  summer  bee  ; 
But  ah,  its  summer  now  has  gone, 

And  grief  alone  is  left  to  me  ! 

Be  hushed  the  harp  ! — its  murmurs  cease, — 

In  silence  let  its  strains  repose, — 
For  oh,  they  blight  the  spirit's  peace, 

And  sadden  all  the  bliss  it  knows  ; — 
They  wake  remembrance  from  her  sleep, 

Her  fond  forgetfulness  of  pain, 
And  drive  the  stricken  heart  to  weep, 

O'er  thoughts  that  long  have  buried  lain  ! 

Then  hush  the  harp  ! — or  fondly  tune 
Its  numbers  to  some  lighter  lay, — 


70  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Some  song  of  pleasures  yet  to  bloom, 
And  hope  shall  conquer  Memory  ! — 

Some  prophet  strain  of  peace  and  love, 
And  future  joys,  oh,  now  he  given, 

And  the  lorn  heart  will  look  above, 

And  lose  its  grief,  in  dreams  of  Heaven  ! 


POEMS. 


TO 

JOHN   ¥.    OVERALL,    ESQ., 

OF   NEW   ORLEANS; 
-A.S    J±.    TRIBUTE 

OF 

anb  ^iterarg 
THESE  POEMS 
ARE     INSCRIBED 


POEMS. 


THE  AKTS  IDEAL. 


The  Arts  are  sisters,  we  are  told, — 

A  linked  and  starry  throng, 
Who  shed  o'er  earth  the  softening  gold 

Of  Painting,  Sculpture,  Song ! 
When  from  the  seraph-sentried  Gate, 

Man  turned  in  wild  despair, 
The  flowers  that  decked  his  loved  estate, 

The  songs  that  floated  there, 
The  forms  that  glimmered  though  the  trees, 

With  shining  arms  and  curls, 
The  wild  harps  swinging  in  the  breeze, 

The  streamlets  paved  with  pearls, — 


74  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

All  these, — the  treasures  of  his  life, — 

The  joys  of  sinless  love, — 
Had  vanished  from  his  path  of  strife, 

And  flown  to  realms  above  : 
But  still,  upon  his  darkened  heart, 

Their  memory  delayed, 
Like  stars  it  through  the  night  impart 

Beams  of  the  glory  fled. 
Like  stars  it  shone,  and  bade  him  strive 

The  glory  to  restore,     .,,, 
And,  on  the  shadowed  earth,  revive 

Her  morning  light  once  more. 
Bold  heart  ! — by  wizard  genius  taught, 

He  caught  the  fire  divine, 
And  once  again  to  earth  were  brought 

The  Arts  that  speak  and  shine. 
Then  Song  and  graceful  Sculpture  came, 

And  Architecture  bold, 
And  Painting,  with  her  wand  of  flame, 

Her  beauteous  robes  unrolled. 
Fair  sisters  ! — 'round  their  paths  they  flung 

The  radiance  of  the  skies, 
And  earth  again  was  fair  and  young, 

And  man  content  and  wise  ! 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  75 

II. 

The  Arts  are  sisters  :  Yes,  the  same 

High  spirit  fills  them  all ; 
At  one  pure  source  each  lit  her  flame, 

And  heard  one  common  call. 
The  graceful  angel  of  our  lives, — 

The  deity  within, — 
Who  in  high  hearts  her  sweetness  hives, 

And  purifies  from  sin, — 
The  soul's  IDEAL, — it  is  her 

Sweet  influence  gives  them  birth, — 
Each  is  her  graceful  minister, 

To  beautify  the  .earth. 
She  tuned  the  wild-wood  harp  of  Burns, 

And  EaphaeFs  pencil  fired  ; 
She  lingered  o'er  Canova's  urns, 

And  Memnon's  stone  inspired  ! 
Her  torch  shed  glory  'round  Lorraine, 

And  sightless  Milton  led, 
Till  brighter  Edens  blessed  again 

The  earth  than  that  had  fled. 
Along  the  Nile  they  bloomed  and  shone, 

The  "Violet-City"  blessed, 


76  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

And  brightened  e'en  Campania's  zone, 

With  richer  loveliness. 
On  rugged  souls  the  influence  fell, 

And  fierce  and  fiery  hearts 
Grew  soft  beneath  the  holy  spell, — 

The  Baptism  of  the  Arts  ! 

in. 

Such  are  the  Arts, — young  Dreamer,*  such 

The  linked  and  starry  throng, 
Who've  waked  thy  heart  with  prophet-touch,- 

Whose  spells  to  thee  belong. 
Yes,  though  the  youngest  one  alone, — 

Sweet  Glass  of  nature's  face  ! — 
Hath  won  thy  worship  for  her  own, 

Yet  all  have  given  their  grace. 
For  on  thy  tablets,  glowing  sweet 

With  beauty's  morning  light, 
Where  grace,  and  love,  and  softness  meet, 

And  all  seems  breathing,  bright, — 
Oh  !  who  can  gaze  nor  feel  that  there 


*  Addressed  to  William  C.  Saunders,  Artist,  and  American  Consul  at 
Rome,  on  his  departure  for  Italy. 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  77 

Embodied  music  lives, — 
Sculptured  to  life  the  forms  appear, 

And  pictured  verse  deceives  ! 
Yes,  Poet-Painter,  though  no  words 

Ring  through  thy  witchery, 
A  deeper  spell  thine  Art  affords, 

In  silent  poetry  ! 
The  pencil,  chisel,  harp,  and  pen 

Are  different  tongues  alone  ; 
The  same  high  truths  they  preach  to  men, 

One  parent  source  they  own  : 
The  same  sweet  eyes  that  shone  each  night 

On  Byron's  boyhood  dream, 
In  Guido's  worship  glassed  their  light, 

And  gave  his  pencil's  theme  ; 
'Round  Chantry's  couch  their  beauty  hung, 

And  circled  wild  Mozart, — 
The  same  inspirers,  ever  young, — 

The  Auroras  of  the  heart  ! 


IV. 

Then  on,  my  friend,  with  faith  and  hope  ! 
A  starry  road  you  tread. 


78  POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Right  onward,  upward, — boldly  cope 

The  Dead  who  are  not  dead  ! 
Soon  for  the  clime  of  song  and  art, — 

The  fountain  school  of  Fame, — 
Your  earnest  spirit  will  depart, 

A  pilgrim's  draught  to  claim. 
Go  proudly  onward, — strive  and  try, — 

Invoke  the  Masters'  spell, — 
The  priests  of  art,  — the  prophets  high, 

Round  Valambrosa's  well. 
These  on  thy  pencil  will  bestow 

Their  colorings  rich  and  strange, 
And  warm  thy  fancy  with  the  glow, 

That  bids  the  canvass — Change  ! 
Drink  at  the  fount,  and  then  return 

Home  to  thy  land  afar, 
And  here  reveal  the  Muses'  urn, 

Beneath  the  forest  star  : 
And  though  the  Arts, — the  flowery  Arts,- 

As  yet  have  scarce  a  home 
Within  our  borders,  there  are  hearts 

Shall  hail  you  when  you  come  ; 
And  this  young  land  of  Freedom's  Faith 

Again  rejoice  to  see 


POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  79 

A  son  of  hers  bear  back  a  wreath 

From  sunny  Italy. 
Then  boldly  on  !  keep  aye  in  view 

The  pictured  cliffs  of  Fame, 
And  thine,  it  may  be  to  renew 

All  but  an  ALLSTON'S  name  ! 


THE  NEW  GENESIS  ; 

OR, 

THE    CREATION    OF    THE   ELEMENTS. 
A  Rabbinical  Tradition. 

"  In  the  beginning/' — ere  the  Earth 

Was  rounded  into  form  and  place, 
Before  the  starry  worlds  had  birth, 

Or  man  was  formed  in  life  and  grace, 
When  all  was  "  void   and  shapeless," G  or> — • 

Of  life,  the  uncreated  source, 
His  chosen  angel  sent  abroad, 

To  vivify  the  Universe. 
Swift,  from  the  spirit  walls  of  heaven, 

The  sweet  apostle  sped  her  flight, — 
YOUNG  NATURE, — unto  whom  was  given, 

A  portion  of  the  Almighty's  might. 
Far  through  the  boundless  space  her  coming  shone, 
Like  the  faint  blushes  of  some  rosy  dawn  ! 

Suspended  in  unpillar'd  space, 
With  floating  angels  all  around, 


POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  81 

The  fair  enchantress  paused  apace, 

And  spoke  with  voice  of  trumpet  sound  : 
"  Here  !  build  we  here  :  The  temples  high, 

The  palaces  and  halls  of  life, — 
The  architecture  of  the  sky, — 

The  world  with  strength  and  beauty  rife  — 
Let  there  be  AIR  !" — And,  as  she  spoke,          . 

She  breathed  afar  a  vital  spell, 
That  all  the  senseless  void  awoke, 

And  filled  its  vast  receptacle  :  — 
Clear  ciystal  walls  transparent  sprang  on  high, 
And  suns,  and  stars,  and  rainbows  decked  the  sky. 

Smiling  divinely  on  the  scene, 

The  beauteous  angel  waved  her  hand, 
And  bade,  with  proud  celestial  mien, 

Appear  the  solid  earth  and  land  ! 
Low  rumbling  thunder  rolled  below, 

As  ether  into  substance  fled, 
And,  bounding,  with  a  giant  throe, 

The  EARTH  upon  her  orbit  sped. 
The  caverns  vast,  the  mountains  high, 

The  plains  and  vales  in  verdure  drest, 
The  waving  woods, — swept  proudly  by, 


82  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Upon  her  vast  majestic  breast. 
The  angels  gazed  with  pleasure  and  surprise, 
As  the  new  wonder  met  their  starry  eyes  ! 

But,  half-unformed,  remained  the  Earth, 

Until  the  legate  of  the  skies 
Bade  seas  and  oceans  usher  forth, 

And  gushing  rills  and  rivers  rise. 
"  Let  WATER  be  !" — and,  at  the  word, 

The  liquid  element  appears, — 
The  thundering  cataract  is  heard, — 

The  crystal  fount,  the  desert  cheers  ! 
Weltering  around,  like  molten  glass, 

The  vast  interminable  waves, 
The  solid  continents,  embrace, — 

And  fill  with  floods  the  ocean  caves, 
low  beautiful  to  angel  visions,  then, 
The  destined  homes  of  uncreated  men  ! 

"  Earth  is  complete,"  the  angel  said, 
"But  oh,  how  cold  !" — and,  quick  as  thought, 

A  glittering  shaft  of  lightning  sped, 

Which  by  a  mountain's  peak  was  caught. 

The  broad  volcano  glared  around, — 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  83 

A  gleaming  pharos  lit  the  sky, — 
The  burning  lava  scorched  the  ground, 

And  woods  and  forests  flamed  on  high. 
The  angel  waved  her  hand  and  stayed 

The  conflagration  in  its  birth, — 
And  soon  the  restless  FIRE  she  made 

Assume  its  destined  place  on  earth  ! 
To  each  and  all,  by  sweet  creative  art, 
Climates  and  seasons,  she  bestowed  their  part. 

'  Earth  is  complete,"  she  now  began, 

"  The  work  of  goodness  is  fulfilled," 
The  ELEMENTS  are  framed  for  man, 
As  by  the  Almighty  Euler  willed. 
Oh,  may  Man  value  them  aright, 

And  heed  the  lesson  that  they  give, 
In  LOVE  and  FRIENDSHIP  to  delight, 

In  Peace  and  CHARITY  to  live  ! 
These  are  the  laws  by  NATURE  given, — 
The  precious  mandates  of  the  skies, — 
They'll  shed  on  earth  the  light  of  heaven, 

And  make  a  second  Paradise  ! 
"  Farewell !"  she  said,  and,  with  her  angel  guard, 
Once  more  to  heaven's  high  home  in  joy  .repaired  ! 


THE  STONE   MOUNTAIN, 

GEORGIA.* 

Stupendous  Thought  in  Nature's  mind  ! 

Some  night-mare  Dream ! — some  gaunt  Despair ! 
What  frantic  passions  were  combined, 

Vast  Incubus  !  to  shape  thee  there  ; 
Volcanic  shudders  shook  the  wind 

As  thou  wert  laid  all  bleak  and  bare  ! 
N"o  wilder  woes  were  ever  wrought 
Than  in  thy  birth—  Titanic  Thought  ! 

All  palpable  thou  looniest  now, 

Strange  massive  Miracle  of  Stone  ! 
The  fierce  storms  sweep  thy  bald,  huge  brow, — 

The  sunlight  sees  thee  there  alone  ! 
Far  'round,  the  vales,  beneath  thee  bow, 

The  tall  trees  at  thy  feet  are  strewn. 


*  This  immense  solitary  peak  of  solid  rock,  in  De  Kalb  county,  Georgia, 
about  12  miles  from  Atlanta,  near  the  Railroad  to  Augusta,  is  three 
thousand  feet  in  height,  and  over  six  miles  in  circumference  at  its  baso. 
It  is  a  huge  conical  hemisphere,  with  a  precipitous  declivity  of  nearly  a 
thousand  feH  on  if* -northern  side. 


POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  85 

Man's  mightiest  pyramids,  to  thee, 
Are  paltry  bubbles  on  the  sea  ! 


Northward,  in  one  sheer  precipice, 
Thy  giant  form  lifts  to  the  sky  ; 

So  high,  so  steep,  so  grim  it  is, 
It  shrinks  the  boldest  gazer's  eye ; 

And  'round  its  far  extremities, 
The  dizzied  eagle  scarce  can  fly. 

Yon  boulder  from  its  verge  displace, — 

'Tis  crushed  to  powder  at  thy  base  ! 

Imperishable  in  thy  might, 

Thou  there  hast  stood  from  earliest  time  ; 
The  rocking  centuries,  in  their  flight, 

Still  saw  thee  changeless  and  sublime  : 
Mute  harmonist  !  while  day  and  night 

Kept  on  their  old  perpetual  rhyme  ! 
Earth's  empires  all,  like  shadows,  run, 
Thou  art  coeval  with  the  sun  ! 

Well  might  the  wild  man  of  the  Land — 
The  buskined  Warrior  of  the  Wood 


86  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Deem  thee  an  Altar,  vast  and  grand, 

For  demons  fierce  or  spirits  good. 
By  night,  he  saw  weird  shadows  stand 

Upon  thy  loftiest  solitude  ; 
Wild  sounds  come  howling  down  thy  side, 
While  wilder  tones  from  heaven  replied  ! 

As  beat  the  thunder  on  thy  brow, 

And  arrowy  lightnings  'round  it  played, 

He  saw  Manito's  great  Pow-wow, 
And  demon  forms  in  strife  arrayed : 

Or,  when  the  Kainbow's  roseate  glow, 
A  halo  'round  thy  forehead  made, 

Fair  forms  he  saw,  with  wings  of  white, 

Flash  radiant  in  the  evening  light ! 

In  later  years  when  war  and  strife 

Drove  maddening  through  the  crimsoned  dells, 
He  fled,  for  safety  and  for  life, 

To  thy  high  cliffs  and  rocky  swells  ; 
There,  fortressed  well  with  child  and  wife 

Amid  his  tribe,  secure  he  dwells. 
No  foe  can  scale  the  winding  way, 
Where  fierce  Muscogee  stands  at  bay  ! 


POEMS  OF   THE   SOUTH.  87 

Sad  tales  of  softness  and  of  love, 

Old  legends  tell,  of  thy  career  ; 
How  from  the  Red  Hawk  fled  the  Dove, 

And  sought  a  sanctuary  here  : 
No  safe-guard  did  thy  summit  prove, 

And,  driven  by  anguish,  hate  and  fear, 
From  thy  dread  peak  she  leaped  afar, — 
Her  white-robes  like  a  falling  star  ! 

At  night  her  faint  scream  oft  is  heard, 

Some  moonlight  night,  when  all  is  still, — 

Or  is't  the  shriek  of  boding  bird, 
Or  cry  of  panther  from  the  hill  ? 

I  fain  believe  tradition's  word, 
Tis  "Ona-cliopa  pelen-chil" 

Thus,  though  the  tribes  have  passed  away, 

Their  fond  romances  with  us  stay  ! 

Grim  Mount  of  Stone  ! — one  summer's  morn, 

Upon  thy  loftiest  height  I  stood, 
And,  far  away,  o'er  hill  and  lawn, 

O'er  pictured  town,  and  sea-like  wood, 
And  streams,  like  silvery  serpents,  drawn, — 

A  boundless  landscape,  'round  me  viewed  ! 


88  POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Earth  seemed  to  swim  in  light  below, — 
Fair  Georgia,  in  transcendent  glow  ! 

Long  shall  my  mind,  that  hour  recall, — 

That  glorious  view, — that  wild  weird  Height,- 

The  thoughts  that  kept  my  soul  in  thrall, 
As  with  some  spell  of  magic  might : 

For  there,  to  memory's  eye,  came  all 

The  Ked  Tribes,  vanished  long  from  sight, 

And  hailed  thee,  vast  Memorial  Stone, 

As  Nature's  Tribute  to  her  Children  gone  ! 


BALAKLAVA. 

Oh,  the  Charge  at  Balaklava  ! 

Oh,  that  rash  and  fatal  Charge  ! 
Never  was  a  fiercer,  braver, 
Than  that  Charge  at  Balaklava, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 
All  the  day,  the  Russian  columns, — 

Fortress  huge,  and  blazing  banks, — 
Poured  their  dread  destructive  volumes 
On  the  French  and  English  ranks — 
On  the  gallant  allied  ranks  ! 
Earth  and  sky  seemed  rent  asunder 
By  the  loud  incessant  thunder  ! 
When  a  strange,  but  stern  command,  — 
Needless,  heedless,  rash  command, — 
Came  to  Nolan's  little  band, — 
Scarce  six  hundred  men  and  horses 
Of  those  vast  contending  forces, — 
"  England's  lost  !  oh,  charge  and  save  her- 
Charge  the  pass  of  Balaklava  !" 

Oh,  that  rash  and  fatal  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 


90  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Far  away  the  Eussian  Eagles 
Soar  o'er  smoking  hill  and  dell, 

And  their  hordes,  like  howling  beagles, 
Dense  and  countless,  "round  them  yell ! 

Thundering  cannon,  deadly  mortar 

Sweep  the  field  on  every  quarter  ! 

Never,  since  the  days  of  Jesus, 

Trembled  so  the  Chersonesus  ! 
Here  behold  the  Gallic  Lillies, — 
Stout  St.  Louis'  golden  Lillies  ! — 
Float  as  erst  at  old  Kamillies  ! — 
And,  beside  them,  lo  !  the  Lion, — 
England's  proud  unconquered  Lion  ! — 
With  her  trophied  Cross,  is  flying. 

Glorious  standards  !  shall  they  waver 

On  the  field  of  Balaklava  ? 

No,  by  heavens  !  at  that  command, — 

Sudden,  rash,  but  stern  command, — 

Charges  Nolan's  little  band  ! 

Brave  Six  Hundred !  lo  !  they  charge 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 

Down  yon  deep  and  skirted  valley, 
Where  the  crowded  cannon  play, — 


POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  91 

Where  the  Czar's  fierce  cohorts  rally, 
Cossack,  Kalmuck,  savage  Kalli, — 

Down  that  gorge  they  sweep  away  ! 
Down  that  new  Thermopylas, 
Flashing  swords  and  helmets,  see  ! 
Underneath  the  iron  shower, 

To  the  brazen  cannon's  jaws, 
Heedless  of  their  deadly  power, 

Press  they  without  fear  or  pause, — 

To  the  very  cannon's  jaws  ! 
Gallant  Nolan,  brave  as  Koland 

At  the  field  of  Koncesvalles, 

Dashes  down  the  fatal  valley, 
Dashes  on  the  bolt  of  death, 
Shouting  with  his  latest  breath, 
"  Charge  them,  gallants  !  do  not  waver, 
Charge  the  pass  of  Balaklava  !" 

Oh,  that  rash  and  fatal  Charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 


Now  the  bolts  of  vollied  thunder 
Rend  that  little  band  asunder. 
Steed  and  rider  wildly  screaming, 


92  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Screaming  wildly,  sink  away, — 
Late  so  proudly,  proudly  gleaming. 
Now  but  lifeless  clods  of  clay, — 
Now  but  bleeding  clods  of  clay  ; 
Never  since  the  days  of  Jesus, 
Saw  such  sight,  the  Chersonesus  ! 
Yet  your  remnant,  brave  Six  Hundred, 
Presses  onward,  onward,  onward. 
Till  they  storm  the  bloody  pass, — 
Till,  like  brave  Leonidas, 
They  storm  the  deadly  pass  ! 
Sabering  Cossack,  Kalmuck,  Kalli, 
In  that  wild  shot-rended  valley, — 
Drenched  with  fire  and  blood,  like  lava, 
Awful  pass  of  Balaklava  ! 

Oh,  that  rash  and  fatal  Charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 

For  now  Bussia's  rallied  forces, — 
Swarming  hordes  of  Cossack  horses, 
Trampling  o'er  the  reeking  corses, — 
Drive  the  thinned  assailants  back, 
Drive  the  feeble  remnant  back  ! 
O'er  their  late  heroic  track  ! 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  93 

Vain,  alas  !     Now  rent  and  sundered, 
Yain  your  struggles,  brave  Six  Hundred  ! 
Half  your  numbers  lie  asleep, 
In  that  valley  dark  and  deep. 
Weak  and  wounded  you  retire 
From  that  hurricane  of  fire, — 
That  tempestuous  storm  of  fire  ! 
But  no  soldiers,  firmer,  braver, 

Ever  trod  a  field  of   fame, 
Than  the  Knights  of  Balaklava, — 

Honor  to  each  hero's  name ! 
Yet  their  country  long  shall  mourn 
For  her  ranks  so  rashly  shorn, — 
So  gallantly  but  madly  shorn, 

In  that  fierce  and  fatal  Charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge. 


NATURE'S  LESS 

The  face  of  Nature  lives  with  beauty, 
But  man  neglects  the  bright  display  ; 

All-unobservant  of  his  duty, 
He  wiles  a  sightless  life  away  ! 

How  sweet  the  rosy  morning  breaking 
:  dewy  lawn  and  wooded  hill ! — 
Fair  alchemist  ! — all-golden  making 
The  waving  grove,  the  rimpling  rill  ! 

Goes  with  the  sun  imperial  splendor 
O'er  »ea  and  Hky  and  festal  earth  ; 

From  blue-browed  noon  to  twilight  tender. 
Koch  way,  arc  orhs  of  heavenly  birth! 

When  far  away,  'mid  flashing  hanners, — 
A  c,riwit,1<wM  army,— Hin1<H  the  HUM, 

What-  watoh-flwi  light  the  bin.    ,.  v.mriaha, 
With  «j»irit.-giwnlu  'H.IUH|  every  one! 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  95 

All  through  the  night,  they  bum  and  brighten— 
The  out-posts  of  the  heavenly  land, — 

Beneath  their  rays  the  hill-tops  whiten, 
And  still  as  spell-bound  giants  stand ! 

And  oh  the  moon  ! — pale  mother  Mary  ! — 
How  fail*  she  makes  the  balmy  night ! — 

Her  brow  may  wane,  her  beauty  vary, 
Through  all  her  presence  is  delight  ! 

Yes,  ever  lovely  ! — earth  and  ocean 
Feel  fairer  in  her  silvery  beam  : — 

The  swan  of  heaven  ! — with  stateliest  motion 
She  cleaves  her  blue  star-pebbled  stream  ! 

Lo  !  like  an  arch  by  angels  bended, 
For  triumph  high  in  Spirit  Land, 

Enwreathed  with  flowers  all-hued  and  blended, 
The  rainbow  o'er  the  valley  spanned  ! 

Almost,  it -seems,  with  beauty  vital  ; 

The  valley  glows  'neath  its  embrace  ; 
And  yon  clear  stream,  with  proud  requital. 

Slides  through  its  deeply  mirrored  grace. 


96  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

All  things  around  thus  tell  of  Eden, 
If  man  would  only  list  and  look  ; 

All  have  a  beauty,  art  exceeding, 

From  sunset's  pomp  to  crystal  brook. 

The  Seasons, — each  a  new  creation, — 
In  linked  circles  press  around  ; 

"  Let  there  be  light  !" — the  revelation 
Kesponsive  clothes  the  quickened  ground 

When  Spring  o'er  hill  and  dell  is  blushing, — 
A  country  girl  all  smiles  and  flowers, — 

What  constant  melody  is  gushing 

From  countless  minstrels  through  the  bowers ! 

The  crimson  Summer  has  his  glory, 
And  mellow  Autumn  rainbow  light, — 

And  Winter,  Lear-like,  all  hoary, 

Sparkles  with  gems  and  robes  of  white  ! 

These  things  are  given  us  to  inspire 
A  love  for  Nature's  gentle  face  ; 

To  make  man  grateful  and  admire 
His  beauty-builded  dwelling-place. 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  97 

Oh  yes !  if  we  would  listen  to  it, 
The  anthem  'round,  below,  above, 

Each  heart  would  leap  to  life — a  poet  ! — 
Each  soul  be  brimmed  with  bliss  and  love  ! 

For  I  have  learned  these  pregnant  lessons, — 
The  soul  is  fashioned  by  the  spheres, — 

Imperishable  in  its  essence, 

It  still  the  stamp  of  Nature  wears ! 

By  beauty  into  beauty  moulded, 

Or  marred  by  blackness  and  by  storm, 

From  influences  which  enfold  it, 
It  takes  its  coloring,  and  its  form. 

Who  then  would  perfect  strength  inherit, 
Must  feed  his  soul  at  Beauty's  fount — 
The  breast  of  Nature, — and  his  spirit,     soo 
In  triumph,  thence,  will  starward  mount. 


THE  DEATH  OF  JACKSON. 

A  wail  of  woe  through  all  the  land  ! 

A  stricken  nation's  plaintive  cry  ! 
Sackcloth  and  gloom  on  every  hand  ! 

A  shadow  o'er  the  sunny  sky  ! 
The  muffled  drum,  the  tolling  bell, 

The  'plaining  bugle's  sinking  breath, 
The  booming  cannon's  sudden  swell, — 

All  speak  thy  presence,  mighty  Death  ! 
Yes  !  see  the  star-wreathed  eagle  stoops, 

And  in  the  darkness  folds  his  wing  ; 
And  lo  !  yon  lordly  banner  droops, 

That  never  vailed  before  a  king  ! 
Oh  !  why  this  heavy  grief  and  gloom  ? 

And  why  this  sudden,  sad  eclipse  ! 
Ah  !  list — the  plaintive  answers  come, 

In  sobbing  tones,  from  freedom's  lips — 
Columbia's  stricken  children  mourn 
A  chief  and  prophet  from  their  altars  torn! 

Well  may  ye  weep  !     Columbia's  sons, 

Of  every  creed  and  party  weep  ! 
For  never,  from  your  treasured  ones, 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  99 

A  nobler  soul  has  sunk  to  sleep. 
Your  country's  latest  boast  and  pride  ; 

His  fame  has  spread  o'er  all  the  world, 
And  poured  her  glory's  starry  tide 

Where'er  her  banners  were  unfurled. 
The  nations  of  each  distant  clime 

Have  learned  to  breathe  his  mighty  name  ; 
And  scholar's  scroll,  and  minstrel's  rhyme, 

Have  wed  it  to  immortal  fame  ; 
Such  spirits  are  a  nation's  stars — 

Without  them,  history  were  dark  ; 
And  oh  !  amid  life's  ocean  jars, 

Would  perish  freedom's  fragile  bark  ! 
Then  weep  with  tides  of  deepest  grief, 
The  hero,  patriot,  statesman,  sage,  and  chief  ! 

Wail  for  the  Warrior  of  the  West  ! 

Who,  in  your  country's  morning  hour, 
Though  but  a  boy,  exposed  his  breast 

To  shield  her  from  a  tyrant's  power. 
Ah  !  see  his  fair  and  silken  curls 

Stained  with  the  crimson  current's  hue  ! 
Yet  bravely  still  his  arm  unfurls 

The  struggling  standard  of  the  few  ! 


100  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Years  pass  ;  and,  by  deep  forest  streams, 

He  quells  a  savage  iceman's  power  ; 
Till,  through  the  trees,  the  genial  beams 

Of  peace  dispense  their  golden  shower  ! 
Again,  by  Mississippi's  wave, 

He  sees  our  olden  foemen  pour  ; 
But  ever  bold  and  prompt  to  save, 

He  hurls  the  Titans  from  the  shore  ; 
Then  weep  your  mightiest  warrior  dead, 
Who  thrice  your  country  saved  from  hostile  tread ! 

But  now  the  sage  and  statesman  mourn  ! 

For  he  was  great  in  peace  as  war  ; 
And  laurel- wreaths  his  brow  adorn, 

More  bright  than  Victory's  crimson  star  ; 
In  vision  keen,  in  judgement  sound, 

In  honest  effort  ever  true, 
In  knowledge  of  the  heart  profound, 

An  inspiration  thence  he  drew. 
His  country  owned  his  sterling  worth, 

And  placed  him  in  her  chosen  seat, 
Above  the  loftiest  thrones  of  earth — 

With  tyrants  crouching  at  his  feet  ! 
Nobly  he  filled  his  kingly  sphere  ; 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOtfTH,     ,  ., .      , 

And  ever,  like  the  olden  sags,  : ':  - 
Led  on  his  countrymen  to  share 

The  treasures  of  the  promised  age  ! 
Then  mourn,  oh  !  reft  and  widowed  land, 
The  latest  ruler,  of  thine  early  band  ! 

Yes,  freemen,  mourn  !  but  'midst  the  gloom, 

Your  grief  and  darkness  to  assuage, 
Turn  back  your  eyes,  and  view  yon  room 

Within  his  own  loved  Hermitage  ! 
The  sunset  of  a  Sabbath  eve 

Shines  round  that  couch  with  golden  glow, 
And  o'er  the  kneeling  forms  that  grieve, 

And  'round  that  head  as  white  as  snow  ! 
Ah  !  seems  he  not  some  prophet  old, 

Just  lingering  on  the  brink  of  time  ? 
And  hark  !  what  scenes  his  lips  unfold 

Of  pleasures  in  the  blessed  clime  ! 
The  sun  sinks  low  ; — athwart  his  beam 

A  glimpse  of  "  wheels  and  horses"  given  ! 
Was  it  a  'shadow  or  a  dream  ? 

Elijah  has  gone  up  to  heaven  ! 
Then  mourn  !  but,  "  not  as  if  in  vain  ;  " 
His  memory,  like  a  mantle,  shall  remain  ! 


THE  DOUBLE  DREAM. 

"  Our  life  is  two-fold."— Byron. 

Fondly  all  through  yesternight, 

Fondly  did  I  dream  of  thee. 
And  my  soul,  in  deep  delight, 

Wandered  with  thine  far  and  free  : 
Brightest  visions  round  me  shone  ; 

All  for  which  my  heart  had  yearned, 
All  the  dearest  scenes  I'd  known, 

'Neath  the  spell  of  sleep,  returned  : 
Fancy  too  assumed  the  helm, 

And  the  ship  of  thought  drove  far, 
O'er  the  dream-sea's  mystic  realm, — 

Thou,  the  sole  and  guiding  star  ! 
Wilt  thou  hear  me  sing  the  scenes 

Mirrored  in  that  Eden  sleep  ? — 
Unto  thee  my  spirit  leans, 

Enchantress,  for  the  meaning  deep  ! 

I. 

First,  within  a  brilliant  hall, 

'Mid  the  youthful,  gay,  and  bright, 


POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  103 

Glanced  a  form  more  fair  than  all, 

Like  a  spirit  on  my  sight ! 
Proudly  through  the  circling  dance, 

As,  between  the  stars,  the  moon, 
Moved  she,  with  a  stately  glance, 

To  the  old  and  festive  tune. 
Sweet  the  music, — for  it  seemed 

But  her  motion's  atmosphere, — 
Filled  with  light  that  round  her  beamed, — 

Captivating  eye  and  ear. 
Thoughts,  like  fountains  years-subdued, 

In  my  bosom  poured  their  tide, 
And,  entranced  like  Saul,  I  stood, 

Mute  with  homage,  at  her  side  ! 

n. 

Months  seemed  passed, — and  now  a  scene, 

Pastoral-sweet,  was  round  me  spread  : — 
On  the  hills,  the  spring-time's  green, 

And  the  blue  sky  overhead  ! 
Winding  down  a  forest  river, 

In  a  lightly  leaning  boat — 
Snowy  sails  in  breezy  quiver, — 

By  her  side  I  seemed  to  float. 


104  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Music  from  her  voice  was  breathed, 

Sweeter  than  a  singing  bird's  ; 
Smiles  around  her  lips  were  wreathed, 

Like  the  starlight  of  her  words. 
Long  we  sailed, — and  passion's  sighs, 

Kneeling  then,  I  dared  to  pour, — 
But  a  storm  overwhelmed  the  skies  ! 

I  was  wrecked  upon  the  shore  ! 

in. 

Fancy  now  more  wild  became  ! 

Far  through  foreign  lands  I  roved, 
Armed, — a  knight, — in  lists  of  fame, 

Championing  my  Ladye-Love. 
Pomp  and  splendor  round  me  shone, 

Cavaliers  and  maidens  bright, — 
But  above  them  all  was  one 

Beautiful  as  morning  light  !— 
On  my  shield  her  scroll  I  bore, — 

FAIREST  VIRGIN  OF  THE  WEST,— 
Kound  my  breast  her  scarf  I  wore, 

And  her  colors  on  my  crest. 
Shouting  loud  defiance  out, 


POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  105 

Sought  I  then  the  marshalled  strife, — 
Proudly  with  the  boldest  fought, — 

Perilling  with  joy  my  life  ! 
Soon  a  victor,  from  the  scene, 

To  her  feet  I  bore  the  prize, — 
Crowned  her  there  as  Beauty's  Queen, — 

Drank  my  plaudits  from  her  eyes  ! 

IV. 

But  a  change  now  strangely  passed 

O'er  my  wild  and  fevered  dream  ; — 
Where  tall  trees  their  shadows  cast, 

By  a  sweet,  secluded  stream, 
We  were  roving  ; — overhead, 

Smiling  like  an  angel's  face, 
Hung  the  moon,  as  if  to  shed 

Love-light  on  that  trysting  place. 
In  the  shadows  and  the  hush 

Of  that  old,  moon-silvered  grove, — 
Prayer,  and  vow,  and  tear,  and  blush  ! — 

Plighted  we  our  troth  and  love  !  — 
What  beside  this  then  occurred 

Underneath  that  smiling  sky, 


106  POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Thou  must  ask  that  startled  bird  !— 
Thou  must  dream  as  well  as  I  ! 


Such  my  visions  yesternight, — 

So  my  spirit  roved  with  thine, — 
Drinking  in  a  wild  delight, — 

Bevelling  'mid  scenes  divine  ! 
Strange  indeed  our  dreams  are  wrought ; 

Fancy,  Memory,  and  Hope, 
All  combine  to  cheat  the  thought 

With  their  gay  kaleidoscope  ! 
What  within  my  dream  was  drawn 

From  the  Past,  thy  heart  can  tell ; 
What  was  Fancy's  work  alone, 

Thou  canst  see  and  solve  as  well. 
But  our  dreams  are  Sybil's  too  ; — 

Could  we  read  their  visits  right, 
We  might  in  their  lessons  view 

Stars  to  guide  the  Future's  night. 
Then,  Enchantress,  solve  the  scenes 

Mirrored  in  my  last  night's  sleep  ! 
Unto  thee  my  spirit  leans, 

Belshazzar-like,  for  meaning  deep. 


THE  DEATH  OF  KICHAKD  HENRY  WILDE. 

The  harp  that  sang  "the  Summer  Rose, " 

In  strains,  so  sweetly  and  so  well, 
That,  soft  as  dews  at  evening's  close, 
The  pure  and  liquid  numbers  fell, 
Is  hushed  and  shattered  !  now,  no  more 
Its  silvery  chords  their  music  pour  ; 
But,  crushed  by  an  untimely  blow, 
Both  harp  and  flower  in  dust  lie  low  ! 

The  bard  ! — alas,  I  knew  him  well ! 

A  noble,  generous,  gentle,  heart, 
Which,  as  his  brave  hand  struck  the  shell 

Poured  feeling  through  the  veins  of  Art. 
What  radiant  beauty  'round  his  lyre  ! — 
Pure  as  his  loved  Italian  fire  ! — 
He  caught  the  sweetest  beams  of  rhyme, — 
The  TASSO  of  our  Western  clime  ! 

Nor  this  alone  :  a  loftier  power, 

That  shone  in  halls  of  High  Decree, 


108  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

And  swayed  the  feelings  of  the  hour, 

As  summer  winds,  the  rippled  sea, — 
Bright  eloquence  !  to  him  was  given  : 
The  spark,  the  Prophet  drew  from  heaven 
It  touched  his  lips  with  patriot  flame, 
And  shed  a  halo  "round  his  name  ! 

As  late  I  saw,  I  see  him  now  ! 

His  stalwart  form,  his  graceful  mien, 
His  long,  white  locks,  his  smiling  brow, 

His  eyes  benignant  and  serene  I 
How  pleasant  'round  the  social  hearth, 
When  listening  to  his  tones  of  mirth  ! 
What  lessons  of  the  good  and  true, 
The  brave,  the  beautiful,  he  drew  ! 

Droop  down  thy  willows,  Southern  land  ! 

Thy  bard,  thine  orator  is  dead. 
He  sleeps  where  broad  magnolias  stand, 

With  "  Summer  roses77  o'er  his  head  ! 
The  lordly  River,  sweeping  by, 
Curves  'round  his  grave,  with  solemn  sigh, 
And,  from  yon  twinkling  orange  stem, 
The  "  Mock-Bird  "  pours  his  requiem  ! 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  109 

Bard  of  the  South  !— the  "  Summer  Kose  " 
May  perish  with  the  "  Autumn  leaf,  " 

The  "  footprints  left  on  Tampa's  "  shores 
May  vanish  with  a  date  as  brief : 

But  thine  shall  be  the  "  life"  of  fame  ; 

No  winter  winds  can  wreck  thy  name  ; 

And  future  minstrels  shall  rehearse 

Thy  virtues,  in  memorial  verse  ! 


TO  A   FAIK   VIRGINIAN. 

Birth-Day  Verses. 

Fair  daughter  of  Virginia  ! — the  Autumn  months  again 
Have,  'mid  their  yellow  sunshine  their  foliage,  fruit  and 

grain, 
Brought  back  the  happy  morning,  when  to  the  smilling 

skies, 
Like  young  and  dewy  blossoms,  first  oped  thine  infant 

eyes  ; 
When  friends  in  joyous  greeting,  stood  'round  with  smile 

and  tear, 

And  hailed  the  cradled  beauty,  as  a  missioned  Angel  here; 
And  now  when  bright  fulfilment  has  crowned  those  early 

dreams, 

And  again  thy  natal  planet  in  diamond  beauty  beams, 
I  too  would  bring  a  tribute  for  one  so  fair  and  sweet, 
And  strew  a  poet's  blessings,  like  flowers,  beneath  thy 

feet! 

Sweet  daughter  of  Virginia  ! — a  noble  birth  was  thine, 
And  proud  ancestral  graces,  in  thy  young  glances,  shine; 


POEMS   OF   THE   SOUTH.  Ill 

The  blood  of  Pocahontas  ! — the  forest  bride  and  queen, 
Her  strong  but  gentle  spirit,  her  soft  but  stately  mien  ! 
The  genius  of  thy  mother  ! — whose  tender  minstrel  lay 
Shed,  o'er  the  Old  Dominion,  its  sunniest  golden  ray  ! — 
The  virtues  of  thy  sisters,  so  beautiful  and  bright, 
Whose  minds  are  crystal  fountains  that  overflow  with 

light ! 

All  these  were  sweet  influences,  to  elevate  thy  heart, 
And  mould  thee  in  thy  loveliness,  to  fill  a  perfect  part ! 


Blest  daughter  of  Virginia  ! — thy  life  thus  far  has  been 
But  as  some  gentle  river  that  flows  through  banks  of 

green  ! 

The  blue  sky  bending  brightly  within  the  dimpled  wave. 
And  flower-eyes  overleaning,  their  pictured  lids  to  lave  ; 
Fair  birds  with  glancing  pinions,  bright  barques  with 

freighted  sweets, 
And   song,  and   laugh,   and   echo,  from   circling,   green 

retreats  ! — 
These  emblem  thy  fair  girlhood  ;  and  heaven  grant  that 

they 
May,   with   increasing  beauty,  shine  'round  thine  after 

way  ! — 


112  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

And  when  thy  life's  bright  current  shall  with  another*! 
blend, 

May  both  pass  on  as  sweetly,  in  Paradise  to  end  1 

Kind  daughter  of  Virginia  ! — few  days  I've  known  thee 

here, 
Yet,  like  redoubled  sunshine,  they've  made  thee  loved 

and  dear. 

I  love  theo  for  Iliy  beauty,  thine  innocence  and  truth, 
Thy  frank,  confiding  spirit,  thy  mind  so  bright  in  youth. 
For  though  a  lonely  stranger,  from  friends  and  home  afar, 
Thy  smiles  have  lit  my  pathway,  like  the  beauty  of  a  star ! 
Then  long  as  memory  liveth,  I  shall  recall  with  pride, 
The  fond  and  joyous  moments  I've  lingered  by  thy  side  ; 
And  ever  on  thy  birth-day,  my  heart  and  harp  would 

twine 
The  roses  of  affection  to  decorate  thy  shrine  ! 


TWO  YEARS  AGO. 


T\VI»  years  ago,  Medora,  I  pledged  my  love  to  thee, 
By  all  life's  fondest  visions,  arid  rny  soul's  integrity  ; 
And  thy  gentle  heart  n-|.«.nd.-d  to  the  echoes  of  my  own. 
And,  like  a  wind-touched  instrument,  gave  back  affection's 
tone! 

Two  years  ago,  Medora,  in  the  soft  moonlighted  breeze, 
That  swayed  the  dappled  shadows  beneath  the  cedar  trees, 
"What  rapture,  and  what  visions  made  either  bosom  warm, 
As,  with  lips  in  love  united,  I  pressed  thy  trembling  form ! 


Two  years  ago,  Medora,  I  breathed  a  sad  farewell, 

In  those  grouped  and  silent  cedars,  and  the  moon  that 

'round  us  fell ;" 
But  we  plighted  vow  and  token, — "Fidelity  through 

pain." 
Ah  !  dost  thou  not  remember  the  ring  we  broke  in  twain  ? 


114  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Two  years  have  passed,  Medora,  and  again  my  heart  has 

come, 
Like  the  worn  and  weary  Hebrew,  to  his  early  nopes  and 

home, 
But  I  find  thee  strangely  altered,  those  trysting  scenes 

forgot, 
That  ring  changed  for  another's,  those  vows  remembered 

not ! 


Two  years !  two  years  !  Medora, — is  this  the  life  of  love  ? 
Its  winged  and  silver  circle,  the  shortest  star's  above  ? 
Are  breeze,  and  beam,  and  shadow,  the  emblems  of  its 

stay  ? 
And   Hope,   and  Faith,   and  Feeling,   the  dreams    of 

yesterday  ? 

Two  years !  alas,  Medora !  I  write  the  words  with  pain, — 
The  epitaph  of  passion ! — inscribed  upon  my  brain ! 
Well,  read,  and  scorn  the  lesson ! — thy  new  love  strive 

to  please, 
But  thy  heart  shall  weep  hereafter  for  those  moonlit 

cedar  trees. 


MY  MOTHER. 

My  mother  !— at  that  dear  and  sacred  word, 

What  thoughts,  deep-treasured  in  this  breast,  are  stirred 

How  speeds  my  heart  back  to  long  vanished  hours, 

When  life  was  sunshine,  o'er  a  path  of  flowers  ! — 

When  the  young  spirit,  like  an  April  bird, 

Poured  forth  glad  music,  in  each  sinless  word  ! 

Boyhood's  lost  Eden,  at  that  mention,  beams, 

Its  curving  sky, — its  clear  and  laughing  streams  ; — 

Its  hopes,  its  pleasures — fancies  and  its  fears, 

Its  wild  ainbitionings — its  easy  tears, 

All — all  arise,  like  stars  at  even-time, 

And  shed  their  softness  on  my  manhood's  prime  ! 

I  see  each  favorite  spot,  where  then  I  roved,  — 

The  foes  I  hated,  and  the  friends  I  loved  ! 

My  morning  sports,  sweet,  innocent  and  pure, — 

My  sunset  rambles  by  the  river's  shore, 

Like  dreams,  return, — and  oh,  more  dear  than  these, 

My  night-time  worship,  at  niy  mother's  knees  ! — 

When  she,  as  low  my  faltering  prayers  I  said, 

Invoked  heaven's  blessings  on  her  first-born's  head ! 


116  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Mother  ! — dear  mother  ! — though  my  heart  hath  grown, 

As  manhood's  will,  by  care,  well  nigh  to  stone, — 

Though  with  a  cold,  indifferent  eye,  I  gaze 

On  the  fair  scenes,  that  charmed  my  earlier  days, — 

And  scarce  a  joy,  that,  flower-like,  wreathed  my  heart. 

In  life's  young  morn,  hath,  in  its  noon,  a  part, — 

Though  the  dear  friends,  I  loved  so  fondly  then, 

Have  left  my  side,  or  grown  to  cold-browed  men, — 

And  I  now  mingle  in  life's  fever-fray, 

With  little  lingering  of  that  better  day, — 

Yet  still,  my  mother,  unto  thee  my  breast 

Turns,  as  the  ark-dove,  to  its  only  rest, 

And  finds  its  hopes,  affections,  feelings,  there, 

Mirrored  in  kindness,  unestranged  by  care, — 

Twines  round  thy  bosom,  as  the  vine  that  clings 

Around  the  oak,  from  which  its  nurture  springs, — 

And  unto  thee,  its  filial  worship  gives, 

As  e'er  it  will,  whilst  its  pulsation  lives, 

With  a  devotion  fonder,  deeper  far, 

Than  the  rapt  Chaldean  pays  his  idol  star  ! 


Yes  !  dearest  mother  ! — though  mine  eyes  have  seen 
Full  many  a  brow,  as  fair  as  Paphia's  queen, — 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  117 

Though  oft,  bewildered,  I  have  gazed  on  forms 

Would  madden  seraphs,  with  their  stany  charms, — 

And  felt  their  influence  o'er  my  feelings  reign, 

Like  night's  pale  maiden,  o'er  the  restless  main, — 

Yet  still,  my  mother,  I  have  never  found 

One  who  could  claim  affections  so  profound, — 

So  free  from  selfishness, — so  pure  and  strong,— 

As  these,  which  ever  unto  thee  belong. 

Thy  high,  pale  brow,  —thy  soft  and  tender  eye, — 

Thy  gentle  smile, — thy  dear  maternal  sigh, — 

Thy  changeless  love, — are  dearer  far,  to  me, 

Than  fame's  bright  baubles  are,  or  e'er  can  be  ! — 

I  would  not  give  one  kindly  word  of  thine, 

For  all  the  music  poured  at  Beauty's  shrine  ! 

And  oh  !  when  life's  last  pulses  cease  to  play, 

And  all  its  dreams,  like  eve-clouds,  melt  away, — 

Upon  my  heart,  undimmed  by  tune  or  care, 

Thy  name  will  stand,  MY  MOTHER  !— written  there  ! 


1844. 


A  SOLDIEK'S  LOVE  DKEAM. 

Tampa  Bay  Florida. 

Behold  yon  star  ! — how  soft  its  ray- 
Melts  over  Tampa's  cradled  bay  ! 
How  brightly,  on  the  waters  blue, 
It's  mellow  gold-beams  fling  their  hue, 
And,  shimmering  softly,  sink  and  shine 
Far  down  in  ocean's  crystal  shrine  ! 

Mid  pearls  and  corals  glistening  bright — 
Mid  crimson  shells  and  sea-gems  rare, — 

That  star  reflected  meets  the  sight, 

And  glimmers,  like  a  diamond,  there  ! — 
Until  the  wanderer's  gazing  eyes, 
In  fondness,  seek  its  native  skies  ! 

That  star,  fair  girl,  is  like  to  thee, — 
Enshrined  in  love  and  purity  ! — 
It's  calm,  clear  lustre,  all  thine  own, 
When  last  upon  my  path  you  shone  ! — 
And  now,  like  it,  o'er  Memory's  lake, 
Thy  heavenly  beauties  gently  break  ; 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  119 

And  deep,  in  fond  affection's  shrine, 

Mid  ruder  thoughts, — mid  grief  and  care, — 
Thy  starry  virtues,  lingering,  shine, 

And  glimmer,  like  a  diamond,  there  ! — 
Until  my  fond,  but  wayward  mind, 
Keverts  to  her  I  left  behind ! 

Yes, — though  my  footsteps  now  have  gone 
Far,  far  from  thee,  beloved  one  ; 
Though  now  no  more  thine  eyes7  dark  light 
Gleams  on  my  heart,  so  calm  and  bright ; 
And  thy  dear  voice  no  more  is  heard, 
Breathing  sweet  music  in  each  word  ; 

Nor  more  thy  clear  and  sunny  smile. — 
Thy  tossing  curls, —  thy  playful  lip, — 

Thy  gentle  looks,  devoid  of  guile, — 

Bless  me  with  their  companionship  ! — 
Yet,  still,  remembrance  of  thy  charms 
Lives  in  my  breast,  and  grief  disarms  ; 
And,  like  those  star-beams  on  yon  bay, 
Casts  lustre  on  my  lonely  way  ! 

And  now,  though  mountains  intervene, 
And  ocean  spreads  his  waves  between, — 


120  POKMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Though  toil  and  strife  are  'round  nie  here, 
And  "  war's  red  banners  flout  the  air, " — 
I  turn  awhile  from  them  away, 
And  dedicate  to  thee  this  lay, — 

To  thee,  whose  young  and  sinless  heart, 

Is  Virtue's  own  peculiar  shrine, — 
Where  Love  and  Genius  grace  impart, 

And  Beauty's  lustres  softly  shine. — 
To  thee, — my  light, — my  life, — my  star  ! 
Whose  radiance  glimmers  from  afar, 
O'er  mount,  and  plain  and  heaving  sea, 
And  fills  my  breast  with  thoughts  of  thee  ! 


A  MONODY. 

And  thou  art  dead ! — alas,  young,  eagle-hearted 
Friend  of  my  youth,  thy  bright  career  is  o'er  ! 

From  earth,  thy  joyous  spirit  has  departed, 
And  I  shall  see  thy  manly  form  no  more  ! 

No  more  shall  press  thy  hand,  or  hear  thy  voice 

Eing  out,  in  eloquence,  o'er  earthly  joys  ! 

Thy  lip  is  stilled — dust  on  thy  stainless  forehead  ! 

Thine  eye  is  dimmed  beneath  its  snowy  lid  ! 
Thy  mind,  that  seemed  a  light  from  heaven  borrowed, 

Like  an  extinguished  lamp,  in  death  lies  hid — 
Gone  from  life's  sorrows,  pleasures,  hopes,  and  fears, 
And  naught  is  left  of  thee,  but  memory  and  tears  ! 

I  knew  it  was  man's  lot,  to  early  perish, 

But  did  not  dream  that  in  life's  morning  bloom, 
Thou — whom  all  hearts  did  love  to  joy  and  cherish — 

Wouldst  meet  the  stern,  irrevocable  doom  ! 
I  thought  I  saw,  in  thee,  a  spirit  sent 
To  bless  and  cheer  our  darkened  firmament  ! 


122  POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Oft  by  thy  side,  at  morning's  freshening  prime, 
Or  when  calm  eve  was  crimsoning  the  sky, 

Bright  scenes  I  pictured,  of  thy  coming  time, 
Bright  as  the  prospects  then  before  the  eye  ! 

Hope  too  was  thine,  and  in  thy  heart  was  stirred 

Her  mild,  sweet  music,  like  a  spring-time  bird  ! 

How  vain  are  man's  opinions — futile — frail ! 

His  hopes  as  transient  as  a  meteor's  flash — 
His  life  as  fleeting  as  a  school-boy's  tale — 

To  dust,  his  proudest  trophies,  death  can  dash  ! 
Thus,  in  a  moment,  o'er  thy  path  was  thrown 

Fell  blight — and  all  thy  promise  withered — gone  ! 

As  falls,  in  Spring,  the  young  and  laughing  blossom- 
As  sinks  the  eagle  from  his  sky  career — 

As  dies  a  vain  hope  in  an  infant's  bosom — 
As  sudden  falls  the  arrow-stricken  deer — 

So  was  thy  pinion  broken,  and  thy  heart 

Stilled  in  its  pulse,  by  an  untimely  dart ! 

Far  from  thy  home,  thy  fond  and  tender  mother — 
From  thy  young  sister's  gentle  watchings,  far — 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  123 

Who  oft,  in  memory  of  their  distant  brother, 

Blessed  the  low  twinklings  of  the  Southern  star — 
In  a  strange  land,  with  strangers  'round  thy  bed, 
Thy  noble  spirit,  from  life's  commune,  fled  ! 

Yet  friends  were  'round  thee,  in  that  darkening  hour — 
The  good  have  always  friends  where'er  they  go  ! — 

Who  would  have  saved  thee,  gladly,  from  that  Power, 
Whose  touch  is  misery,  and  whose  breath  is  woe. 

They  saw  thy  grief — they  vainly  tried  to  save — 

They  closed  thine  eyes — they  heaped  thine  early  grave ! 

And  o'er  the  spot,  where  now  thy  form  reposes, 

Will  wandering  Friendship  shed  the  frequent  tear — 

Young  maiden  hands  will  deck  its  turf  with  roses, 
And  manly  bosoms  leave  their  tributes  there  ! 

No  gift  more  fitting,  can  I,  for  thee,  bring, — 

This  humble  flower  is  all  my  offering. 


OLYMPIC   SPOKTS. 

A  Prize  Address. 

In  classic  days,  when  mythologic  Greece 

Filled  her  broad  temples  with  the  arts  of  peace  ; 

When  Learning  flourished,  and  when  Thought  sublime 

Framed  Miracles,  as  lovely  as  her  clime  ; 

When  Sculpture — the  Prometheus  of  New  Life, — 

With  Nature  vied,  in  proud  creative  strife  ; 

When  Painting  brightened  in  her  Iris  hues, 

And  deathless  Music  wed  the  Lyric  Muse ; 

When  life  seemed  all  a  golden  holiday, 

And  man,  a  reveller  in  pleasure's  ray ; — 

Then  Genius  rose,  to  hold  a  Festal  Court, 

And  grouped  these  splendors  for  Olympic  Sport ! 

Proud  on  her  plains,  the  Attic  Circle  spread, 

Where  all  the  Muses  were  for  contest  led. 

There  the  strong  athlete  showed  his  wondrous  powers, 

While  the  gay  mimic  cheered  the  frolic  hours  ; 

Swift  o'er  the  field  the  gallant  coursers  run, 

Till  steed  and  rider  seem  to  be  but  one  ; 


POEMS   OF   THE    SOUTH.  125 

Far  rings  the  shout — the  echo  of  renown, — 
And  the  proud  victor  wears  the  Olive  Crown  ! 

In  later  days,  when  Home — imperial  Queen, — 
On  on  all  her  seven  hills,  in  pomp  was  seen, — 
Her  stateliest  palaces,  with  classic  names, 
Were  shrines  devoted  to  the  Public  Games  ! 
Lo  !  on  yon  mount,  the  Coliseum  view, — 
Art's  proudest  monument — the  City's  too  ! 
What  countless  thousands  crowd  its  collonades  ! — 
What  thrilling  sports,  processions,  and  parades  ! 
The  loftiest  noble,  with  the  Wrestler  vies, — 
The  gay  Gymnast  around  th'  arena  flies, — 
The  imprisoned  Swordsmen  join  in  mortal  fray, — 
And  die,  "  to  make  a  Koman  Holiday  !" 

Such  times  are  gone  ;  hut  we,  with  kindred  powers, 
Would  seek  once  more  the  famed  Olympian  bowers. 
Upon  this  spot,  whose  crumbling  ruins  tell 
How  late,  by  fire,  a  sculptured  palace  fell, — 
Our  city's  boast  and  pride  ! — we  come  to  rear 
A  shrine  for  mirth, — a  Eoman  temple  here  ! 
Around  this  broad  arena,  you  shall  see 
The  flying  steed,  in  native  majesty  ; 


126  POEMS    OF    THE    SO  FTTH. 

The  gallant  Barb  will  skim  along  this  plain, 

As  o'er  his  free-born  deserts  once  again  ; 

The  Tartar,  too,  will  spurn  the  hurrying  ground, 

With  wild  Mazeppa  still  upon  him  bound  ! 

While  from  the  West,  the  Indian's  steed  shall  come, 

Fierce  with  the  impulse  of  his  battle  drum  ! 

But,  chief  of  all,  here  man  shall  move  in  pride, 

And  show  how  grace  and  strength  may  be  allied. 

Lo  !  now  behold  him  stand,  like  Hercules, 

Wielding  his  giant  club  with  infant  ease  ! 

Now,  like  Apollo,  see  his  faultless  form, 

In  every  flexile  shape,  still  glowing  warm  ! 

And  now,  like  Mercury,  with  winged  feet, 

He  tiptoe  stands  upon  his  courser  fleet  ! 

Fair  Woman,  too,  with  wild,  bewitching  grace, 

Joins,  like  Camilla,  in  the  circling  race  ; 

While,  from  each  kindling  eye,  and  glowing  cheek  ; 

The  deep  emotions  to  the  gazer  speak. — 

Thus  every  phase  of  life  we  seek  to  show, 

And  join  the  arts  of  Garrick  and  Ducrow  ! 

Nor  this  alone  ;  here  Momus  holds  his  court, 
And  Wit  and  Folly  keep  perpetual  sport. 


SONGS   OF    THE   SOUTH.  127 

Fools  are  abundant  in  this  world's  wide  bowers  ; 
But  where — where  will  you  find  such  fools  as  ours  ? 
Not  the  buffoon,  who,  with  his  stupid  laugh 
At  sensless  bulls,  but  proves  himself  a  calf ; 
Nor  the  dull  clodpole,  who  with  thread-bare  jokes, 
Shows  his  own — folly,  to  the  wondering  folks  ; 
But  fools  of  that  renowned  and  gifted  kind, 
Whom  Shakespeare  fashioned  in  his  Pantheon  mind! 
Whose  sparkling  humor  flows  with  Champagne  cheer, 
And  is  not  kept  and  bottled,  like  small  beer  ! 
Such,  with  our  well-known  Ethiopian  Band, — 
With  Smith — yes,  famous  John  Smith — in  command, 
Must  gain  loud  plaudits  from  the  hands  I  view, 
Or  they  must  yield  "  the  bells  and  cap  "  to  you  ! 

Patrons  and  Friends!  Bright  eyes  around  this  Ring — 
Lips  red  with  beauty,  like  young  flowers  in  spring, — 
Our  greeting's  o'er  !     To  you  we  now  confide 
The  feats  and  follies  which  we  shall  provide; 
If  you  approve,-  these  walls  ere  long  shall  rise, 
In  loftier  grandeur,  to  these  sunny  skies, — 
And  this  Arena  prove  a  loved  resort, 
The  choicest  temple  of  Olympic  Sport  ! 


THE  DUCHESS  OF  DEVONSHIRE.* 

Bold  Painter,  try  thy  utmost  skill ! 
In  vain  thy  heart,  in  vain  thy  will ! 
Thou  canst  not  paint  that  brow  so  fair — 
Its  fondling  curls  of  shining  hair  ! 
Thy  pallette  hath  no  tints  can  vie 
With  the  rich  radiance  of  that  eye  ! 
Nor  picture  forth  the  beams  that  speak 
From  the  clear  sunshine  of  that  cheek, 
Where  snow  and  coral  intertwine 
To  consecrate  for  love  a  shrine  ! 
And  oh,  'twill  all  thy  art  eclipse, 

And  make  thee  throw  thy  pencil  by — 
Though  tinted  from  the  sunset  sky, — 
To  paint  the  elysium  of  those  lips  ! 


*  "  Gainsborough,  the  rival  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  in  vain  attempted 
to  paint  the  portrait  of  Georgiana  Spencer,  the  celebrated  Duchess  of 
Devonshire.  She  was  then  in  the  full  bloom  of  her  youth,  and  her 
charms  and  conversation  took  away  that  readiness  of  hand  and  happi 
ness  of  touch  which  belonged  to  the  painter  in  his  ordinary  moments. 
The  portrait  was  so  little  to  his  satisfaction  that  he  refused  to  send  it  to 
Ghatworth.  Drawing  his  wet  pencil  across  a  mouth,  which  all  who  saw  it 
thought  exquisitely  beautiful,  he  said,  '  Her  Grace  is  too  hard  for  me.'  " 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  129 

Enthusiast !  hast  thou  ever  seen 

The  glorious  forms  of  Grecian  art, — 
The  statue  of  the  Egyptian  Queen, — 

The  Goddess  of  the  trembling  heart  ? 
Hast  thou  e'er  gazed  on  the  sublime 
Forms  of  Italians  classic  clime, — 
Where,  as  the  ancient  minstrels  tell, 
The  stars  of  heaven  came  down  to  dwell, 
With  all  the  lustre  of  the  skies 
Around  them  still,  and  in  their  eyes, 
And,  finding  there  no  fitter  shine, 
Took  woman's  form,  and  made  't  divine  ? 
If  thou  hast  ever  gazed  on  these 
Earth-bound,  but  heaven-born  Pleiades, 
And  on  thy  canvas  learned  to  trace, 
Kaphael-like,  their  forms  of  grace, 

In  all  their  peerless  purity, 
Then  mayst  thou  paint,  and  not  before, 
The  Loveliness  which  all  adore, — 

This  new  Divinity ! 


Oh,  if  Apelles,  when  of  old 

He  stood  before  Campaspe  bright, 


130  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

With  hand  as  skilled  and  heart  as  bold 
As  ever  drew  a  form  of  light; 

Found  all  his  art  in  vain,  and  threw 
Himself  in  homage  at  her  feet, — 

What,  daring  dreamer,  what  must  you, 
When  that  bright  face  and  form  you  meet, 

Which,  e'en  Apelles  would  confess, 

Surpass  Campaspe's  loveliness  ! 

Then,  Painter,  fling  thy  tablet  by, 
And  quickly  from  th'  enchantress  fly, 
Ere  'round  thy  heart  the  spell  is  woven, 

That  sterner  spirits  oft  hath  caught, 
And,  to  their  rashness,  haply  proven 

Her  charms  are  with  destruction  fraught ! 
For  though  her  face  is  fairer  far 
Than  earthly  flower  or  heavenly  star, — 
Yet,  to  thy  bold,  aspiring  heart, 
That  holds  in  life  a  lowly  part, 
She  is  but  one  of  those  bright  forms, — 
A  rainbow  in  a  sky  of  storms  ! — 

That,  from  afar,  the  vision  bless, 
But  never  nearer  come  or  smile, — 

That  man  mav  kneel  to — not  caress  ! — 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  131 

A  verdant,  pure,  but  lonely  isle, 

Encradled  in  a  distant  sea, 
By  which,  perchance,  some  barque  may  gleam, 
And  catch  its  light,  as  in  a  dream, 

But  with  it  cannot  stay  ! 
And  though  the  voyager  long  may  weep 
For  that  bright  Eden  of  the  deep, 

And  thirst  its  charms  again  to  view, — 
To  hear  once  more  its  music  sweet, — 

To  rove  its  fragrant  bowers  anew, — 
And  watch  the  fond  waves  'round  it  beat, 
And  all  its  treasures  to  obtain, — 
Yet  aye  must  find  his  longings  vain  ! 


"WHY  WEEP  FOR  THE  YOUNG  ?" 

Why  weep  for  the  young  and  the  lovely  who  die, 
In  the  morning  of  life,  ere  the  light  from  the  sky, 
The  pure  light  of  childhood,  has  flown,  or  a  ray 
Of  innocence  beaming,  has  vanished  away, — 
Ere  the  young,  joyous  heart,  of  unkindness  hath  heard, 
Or  hope  falls  exhausted,  like  a  wing-broken  bird  : — 
Ere  sin  and  temptation,  the  sirocs  of  life, 
Have  blasted  their  beauty — or  sorrow  and  strife, 
O'er  the  morn-dreams  of  fancy  their  shadows  have 

flung, 
Like  pinions  of  evil  ; — why  weep  for  the  young  ? 

Why  weep  for  the  young — whose  spirits,  too  pure, 

The  darkness  of  guilt  and  of  grief  to  endure, 

From  the  bligh tings  of  earth,  from  its  changes  and 

crimes, 

Have  fled  far  away  to  the  heavenly  climes  ; 
Where  youth,  and  affection,  and  all  that  is  bright, 
Drink  from  fountains  of  bliss  ;  and  the  pureness  of 

light 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  133 

Sheds  its  beams  of  effulgence  and  beauty  abroad. 
O'er  the  brows  of  the  sinless,    like  the   smilings   of 

God:- 

Where  hosannas  and  blessings  eternal  are  sung 
From  the  flame-lips  of  cherubs, — why  weep  for  the 

young  ? 

Why  weep  for  the  young— who,  like  clouds  of  the 

morn, 

In  incense  and  beauty  to  heaven  are  borne, — 
And  rise,  'raid  the  splendor  and  first  blush  of  day, 
From  the  darkness  and  travail  of  after  decay. — 
Nor  gather  and  wait  till  the  coming  of  even, 
'Mid  tempest  and  thunder  and  gloom  to  be  riven, — 
But  pure  and  undarkened,  in  the  orient  gold, 
Seek  the  source  of  all  brightness,  their  hues  to  unfold. 
Unscathed  and  unruffled  by  sorrow  or  wrong — 
The  dowers  of  earth  ; — why  weep  for  the  young  ? 

Why  weep  for  the  young — the  flowers  of  spring — 
The  birds  that  have  ceased  in  the  forest  to  sing — 
But  now  in  the  bowers  of  Eden  above, 
Keep  festivals  erer  of  gladness  and  love  : — 


134  POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH, 

The  stars  of  existence,  whose  beams  on  us  here, 
The  far-climes  of  glory  now  still  more  endear  : — 
Oh  !  surely  'tis  sweet  for  affection  to  know, 
That  the  lov'd  and  the  bright  are  free  from  earth's  wo, 
And  with  seraphs  and  saints  they  swell  the  glad  song  * 
Disconsolate  mourner, — why  weep  for  the  young  ? 


THE  FATED  CITY. 

'Twas  evening, — and  the  gorgeous  sun 

Streamed  brightly  in  the  sky, 
And  cast  his  farewell  beams  abroad, 
Like  smiles  of  an  approving  god, 

O'er  plain,  and  mountain  high, — 
O'er  waving  fields  of  floating  gold, 
That  round  his  sinking  car  were  rolled, 
And  o'er  the  City's  glistening  spires, 
That  flashed  beneath  his  blazing  fires  ! 

There  lay  that  city, — wealth  and  pride 

Had  built  their  temples  there, 
And  swift- winged  commerce  there  had  brought, 
From  many  a  clime,  her  trophies  caught, — 

From  isles  in  ocean  far, — 
The  tribute  of  the  Indian  seas, — 
The  offerings  of  the  Cyclades, — 
And  jewels  far  outvying  them, — 
The  mind's  immortal  diadem  !• 


136  POKMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

The  sun  went  down,  and  night  came  o'er 

That  city's  winding  walls  ; 
The  white  moon  rose  along  the  sky, 
And  looked  down,  like  a  spirit's  eye, 

Upon  the  shouting  halls, 
Where  beauty  shone,  and  laughter  went 
From  lip  to  lip,  with  music  blent, — 
Where  all  was  heedless,  happy,  light, 
Besporting  on  that  festal  night. 

Within  a  palace,  proud  and  high, 

A  bridal  band  were  met, — 
Nowhere,  beneath  the  blue-arched  heaven, 
Were  happier  hearts  than  then  were  given 

In  union  pure  and  sweet : 
He  was  a  warrior  young  but  tried — 
The  City's  peerless  Eose, — the  Bride  ! — 
Long  years  of  bliss  and  joy  were  theirs, 
If  aught  availed  fond  friendship's  prayers  ! 

Throughout  that  city  all  was  glad  ! — 

Wreaths  for  the  young  and  gay, 
Robes  for  the  royal,  —gems  and  stars, 
To  glitter  o'er  the  warrior's  scars,  — 


POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  137 

The  poet's  verdant  bay  ! — 
Ah,  it  is  beauty's  festal  time  ! — 
List,  to  the  lover's  melting  rhyme  ! — 
Fair  city,  ne'er,  in  all  thy  bliss, 
Knew'st  thou  a  happier  night  than  this  ! 

An  hour  passed  on, — what  cry  is  that, 

Which  thrills  that  city  so  ? — 
What  shrieks  are  those  ? — what  means  yon  cloud, 
That  veils  the  heavens,  like  a  shroud, — 

Blotting  the  moon's  pure  glow  ? 
What  mean  those  flames,  that  blazing  run 
Along  yon  mountain  dark  and  dun  ? — 
Why  shakes  the  earth — why  heaves  the  sea — 
Why  peal  those  thunders  dreadfully  ? 

Night  left  the  earth — the  sun  arose, 

As  wont,  upon  the  sky, 
And  looked— not  on  that  city  bright, 
Which  he  had  left  before  the  night, 

With  turrets  gleaming  high, — 
But  on  a  black  and  cheerless  waste, 
Dread  desolation's  hand  had  traced, — 
Upon  a  flood  of  lava,  where 
Once  stood,  in  splendor.  POMPEII  fair. 


TO  "THE  KOSE  OF  CHARLESTON," 

After  a  Ball. 

Sweet  Eose  of  Charleston  !  though  the  hours 

Were  few  and  fleet  in  which  we  met, 
Yet  they  were  strewed  with  brilliant  flowers, 

Whose  hues  and  fragrance  linger  yet. 
Amid  the  gay  and  circling  dance, 

You  passed  with  such  bewitching  grace, 
That  even  now,  in  memory's  glance, 

I  view  your  fair  Madonna  face  ! 

Sweet  Rose  of  Charleston  !  other  forms 

Were  glittering  'round,  a  beauteous  train, 
As  bright  as  rainbows  after  storms, 

When  sunset  smiles  upon  the  rain  ; 
But  thou  wert  peerless  in  thy  pride, 

The  noblest,  queenliest  form  of  all ; 
In  vain  with  thee  the  loveliest  vied, — 

Young  Aphrodite  of  the  Ball ! 

Sweet  Rose  of  Charleston  !  all  the  grace 
And  lustre  of  these  sunny  skies. 


POEMS   OF   THE    SOUTH.  139 

Is  pictured  in  thy  smiling  face, 
And  beams  resplendent  in  thine  eyes. 

The  wild  rose  dimples  on  thy  cheek, 
Blent  with  the  lily's  spotless  hue  ; 

Thy  lips  like  crimson  blossoms  speak  ; 
Thine  eyes  are  blue-bells  bathed  in  dew  ! 

Sweet  Rose  of  Charleston  !  in  thine  ear 

I  breathed  a  few  vain,  idle  words, 
Such,  as  in  sport,  you  often  hear 

From  Fancy's  light,  vibrating  chords. 
But  in  my  heart  I  deeply  felt 

The  influence  of  a  purer  fire, 
That  made  to  love  its  pulses  melt, 

As  throbbed  with  music  Memnon's  Lyre  ! 

Sweet  Rose  of  Charleston  !  never  more 

In  life,  perchance,  our  paths  may  meet, 
But  on  the  sea,  or  on  the  shore, 

Thy  beauty  I  shall  ever  greet : 
Thy  face  is  pictured  on  my  brain, 

By  memory's  fond  Daguerrean  art ; 
And,  'till  rny  life  shall  cease,  the  chain 

Of  love  will  ever  bind  mv  heart ! 


THE  LIGHTNING-SLAIN. 

Friend  of  my  youth  ! — 
Last  eve,  I  stood  beside  thy  grave, 
Where  verdant  willows,  drooping,  wave, 

In  silent  ruth  ; — 

And,  as  I  gazed,  I  felt  my  eye-lids  swell 
With  tears; — unwonted  gushings  from  my  bosom's  well! 

'Twas  sunset's  hour  1 — 
Along  the  occidental  sky, 
Like  ships  at  anchor,  clouds  did  lie, — 

While  a  thick  shower 
Of  gold,  o'er  all  their  canvas,  fell  like  fire, 
And.  like  a  town  in  flames,  glowed  the  sun's  funeral  pyre  ! 

Bright  o'er  the  earth, 
The  radiance  fell, — o'er  sea  and  plain. 
That  blushed  the  glory  back  again  ! — 

'Twas  Vesper's  birth  ! — 
Entranced  I  gazed,  my  hand  upon  thy  urn, 
And  felt  lost  thoughts  of  thee.  within  my  bosom  burn  ! 


POEMS   OF   THE   SOUTH.  141 

'Twas  such  an  eve, 
When  last  I  looked  iipon  thy  brow, 
So  calm,  and  clear,  and  sunny  in  its  glow  ! 

To  frown  or  grieve, 

Thou  ne'er  hadst  learnt, — thy  free  and  boyish  heart 
Seemed,  in  its  innocence,  to  be,  of  heaven,  a  part  i 


Thy,  wild,  gay  laugh 
Was  like  a  minstrel's  song, — thine  eye 
Dark  as  the  midnight's  moonless  sky  ! 

Thou  loved'st  to  quaff 

The  bubbling  cup  of  joy, — and  science  poured 
Her  fruits  and  treasures   in  thy  mind, — a  sumptuous 
hoard ! 


Before  thine  eye, 

The  world  outspread,  hued  like  the  West, 
That  then,  in  gorgeous  drapery  drest, 

Pillared  the  sky  !— 

And  thou  built  castles  grand,  and  fondly  deemed 
The  flowering  Palestine  would  prove  all  that  it  seemed ! 


142  POEMS  OF  THJ:  SOUTH. 

We  parted  then, — 

But  storm  and  darkness  ruled  the  night ! — 
The  sun  went  down  in  kingly  light. — 

And  mount  and  glen 

Quaked,  as  the  thunder  rolled,  and  lightnings  flashed. 
And  many  a  tell,  old  oak,  by  the  dread  bolts,  was  crashed  ! 


Thy  friends  around, — 
Thou,  then,  wast  seated  in  thy  home, 
Smiling  beneath  thy  parent  dome, — 

Love's  hallowed  ground  ; — 

When,  quick  as  thought,  death's  lightning  arrow  sped, 
And  hurled  destruction,  on  thy  fair  and  youthful  head  ! 


Next  morn,  I  saw 

Thy  corpse  !  — Thy  beauteous  brow  and  cheek 
Were  pale  and  cold. — but  pure  and  meek. 

No  stain  or  scar 

Was  on  thy  loveliness. — the  vanished  breath, 
And  pulseless  heart  were  all  that  token'd  death  ! 


POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  143 

Thy  SOUL  was  fled  ! 

And  sadly,  to  thy  grave,  we  bore  thee, — 
O'er  which,  last  eve,  I  did  deplore  thee  ! 

Though  thou  art  dead, 

Long,  long,  will  many  an  eye  be  dim,  and  long 
Will  memory  wake  her  harp,  for  thee,  in  tears  and  song ! 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

How  beautiful,  fair  girl,  art  thou, 

All  robed  in  innocence  and  truth  ! 
Upon  thy  calm  and  snowy  brow, 

Beam,  like  a  crown,  the  smiles  of  youth  ; 
Heaven's  sunshine  falls  and  lights  thy  way, 

As  one  too  pure  and  bright  for  sorrow — 
And  virtue's  soft  and  seraph  ray 

Flings  lustre  on  thy  dawning  morrow — 
Giving  a  promise,  that  thy  life 
Will  ever  be,  with  pleasure,  rife  ! 


Upon  those  dark,  bright  eyes  of  thine, 
That,  soft  as  moonlit  waters,  beam, 
I  love  to  gaze,  and,  as  they  shine, 
Of  those  ethereal  beings  dream, 
That  oft,  on  us,  have  smiled,  in  sleep, 
Then  quickly  flown,  and  made  us  weep, 
That  e'er  to  man,  so  much  of  heaven 
Should  just  be  shown, — all !  never  given  ! 


POEMS   OF   THE   SOUTH.  145 

How  soft  the  rose  upon  thy  cheek, 

Blent  with  the  lily's  milder  hue, 
Whose  mingling  tints  of  beauty  speak 

A  sinless  spirit — calm  and  true  ! — 
The  smile,  that  wreathes  thy  rosy  lip, 

Is  young  affection's  radiant  token — 
Beauty  and  Truth  in  fellowship  ! — 

The  symbol  of  a  heart  unbroken  ; 
Within  thy  bosom,  holy  thought, 

As  in  a  temple,  hath  its  shrine, 
Refulgent  with  a  glory  caught 

From  the  pure  presence  of  thy  mind, 
Whose  lustre  flings  a  hallowing  ray, 
Around  thee,  calm  as  orient  day  ! 


Oh  !  may  thy  life  be  ever  bright, 

As  aught  thine  early  dreams  have  framed, 
And  not  a  shadow  dim  its  light, 

Till  heaven,  in  mercy,  shall  have  claimed 
Thee,  as  a  being  fit  for  naught 
That  earth  can  boast,  all  sorrow-fraught 
As  are  its  brightest  visions.     May 

Thy  life  be  one  long  dream  of  love. 


146*  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Unbroken  till  the  perfect  day, 

When  heaven  shall  waft  thy  soul  above, 
And  crown  thee  as  an  angel  there, 
Who  wast  indeed  an  angel  here  ! 


CARMEN  SECULARS. 

A  Carrier's  Address, 

Another  wave  of  Time  has  rolled 

Upon  Eternity's  wide  ocean  ; 
Another  funeral  bell  has  tolled, 

With  solemn  sound  and  mighty  motion  ; 
Another  year  is  dead  and  gone, 

And  with  the  Past  lies  coldly  sleeping  ; 
But  still  another  one  comes  on, 

With  rainbow  smiles,  to  cheer  our  weeping  ! 
Then  while  we're  mourning  o'er  his  fate, 

Let  rapture  with  our  grief  combine, — 
And,  as  we  sigh  for  Forty-Eight, 

We'll  welcome  Forty-Nine  ! 

The  year  that's  dead  saw  many  things 

Pass  o'er  the  earth  in  wild  confusion  ; 
It  saw  the  fall  of  mighty  kings, — 

All  Europe  wrapt  in  Revolution  : 
Fair  France  sprang  up  in  queenly  pride, 

And  trod  in  dust  the  Bourbon  banner, — 
And  o'er  the  Seine's  ensanguined  tide, 

Was  heard  young  freedom's  loud  hosanna  ! 


148  POEMS   OF    THE   SOUTH. 

Oh,  Land  of  Lillies  ! — stand  elate  ! 

The  Warrior,  and  the  Bard  are  thine  ! 
And  may  their  hopes  in  Forty-Eight, 

Prove  true  in  Forty-Nine  ! 

But  o'er  the  sea  the  sky  is  dark, 

And  gloomy  clouds  hang  on  the  Island, 
Where  perished  freedom's  fragile  bark,  — 

Where  Tara's  harp  is  crushed  and  silent ! 
Woe  !  for  the  scenes  the  year  beheld, 

When  prowled  in  gore  the  Saxon  lion  : — 
And  Mitchell's  lordly  heart,  unquelled 

With  Meagher  sank,  and  proud  O'Brien  ! 
Oh  land  of  woes  ! — disconsolate — 

A  felon's  heritage  seems  thine — 
But  what  you  lost  in  Forty-Eight, 

Redeem  in  Forty-Nine  ! 

Our  country,  when  the  year  was  new, 
Was  mingling  in  the  strife  of  battle, — 

But  safe  our  victor-eagle  flew 
Above  the  cannon's  deadly  rattle. 

Peace  was  achieved, — and  freedom's  beams 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  149 

Shone  o'er  new  realms  and  territories, 
And  now  the  far  Pacific  streams 

Reflect  our  country's  bannered  glories  ! 
Yes,  we  have  won  a  rich  estate, — 

Lo  !  California's  golden  mine  ! — 
Oh  may  the  deeds  of  Forty-Eight 

Be  blessed  in  Forty-Nine  ! 

But  ah  !  the  year  that  now  has  gone, 

Has  had  its  grief  as  well  as  gladness, 
And  lips,  that  laughed  with  music's  tone, 

Awhile  must  breathe  the  dirge  of  sadness  ! 
'Tis  sad  to  see  a  chieftain's  fall, — 

Tis  sad  to  see  a  friend's  defection, — 
Sad  is  "  Salt  River"  unto  all— 

Yes  doubly  sad  a  lost  election  ! 
Democracy  has  met  this  fate, — 

The  lordliest  sun  had  its  decline  ! — 
But  suns,  that  sank  in  Forty-Eight, 

"Will  rise  in  Forty-Nine  ! 

But  life  has  other  scenes  than  these, 

Though  humbler,  dearer  to  the  bosom, — 


150  POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Where  wave  the  heart's  green  vernal  trees, 

And  all  the  young  affections  blossom  ! 
The  year  just  passed  has  held  the  torch 

Of  Love  full  oft  in  Hymen's  bowers, 
And  oh  !  perhaps,  through  death's  dark  porch, 

Some  friends  have  gone — no  longer  ours  ! 
Smiles  blend  with  tears  ! — the  woof  of  fate  ! — 

The  yew  and  myrtle  oft  entwine  ! 
But  may  the  tears  of  Forty-Eight 

Prove  smiles  in  Forty-Nine  ! 


Thanks  to  the  breezes  of  the  sky, 

They've  fanned  with  health  our  orange  bowers, 
And  o'er  our  land  Prosperity 

Has  thrown  her  robes  of  grain  and  flowers  ! 
What  though  the  Plague's  dark  angel  now, 

Upon  a  sister  city's  treading, 
And  scattering  ashes  on  her  brow, 

And  sackcloth  o'er  her  beauty  spreading, — 
We,  while  we  mourn  her  dreadful  fate, 

May  humbly  kneel  before  the  shrine, 
And  trust  our  G-od  in  Forty-Eight 

Will  shield  in  Forty-Nine  ! 


POEMS   OF   THE   SOUTH.  151 

Our  "little  city's"  steeples  now 

Flash,  joyous  in  the  New  Year's  splendor, — 
The  crown  of  Commerce  decks  her  brow, 

And  hopes  of  "  better  days"  attend  her. 
The  high  designs  of  Art  and  Trade 

Have  wooed  the  Ocean  Steamships  nigh  her, 
And  soon  bold  effort  will  have  made 

The  Railroad  to  the  far  Ohio! 
The  Fair  Emporium  of  our  State 

In  pride  and  opulence  will  shine, 
When  these,  the  dreams  of  Forty-Eight, 

Are  facts  in  Forty-Nine  ! 

But,  friends,  I  linger  in  my  song 

Much  longer  than  I  fear  is  civil, 
For  poetry's  a  bore,  when  long, 

Though  sung  and  written  by  the  "  Devil." 
But  yet,  before  I  make  my  bow, 

One  gentle  HINT  I  must  not  smother, — 
I've  sang  for  you  these  verses  now, 

And  "  one  good  turn  deserves  another." 
Thanks  ! — double  thanks  ! — May  kindest  fate 

Make  every  earthly  blessing  thine, 
And  twice  the  joy  of  Forty-Eight 

Be  vours  in  Forty-Nine  ! 


BIRD    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

An  Allegory  :  for  Mrs.  Caroline  Lee  Ilentz. 

Bird  of  the  South  ! — though  thy  beautiful  pinions 
Have  flashed  on  mine  eyes,  like  the  wings  of  a  star, — 

And  ne'er  have  I  seen,  save  in  fancy's  dominions, 
A  phantom  of  light  so  exquisitely  fair  : 

Though  soft  is  thine  eye  as  the  blue  of  thy  heaven, 
Thy  motions  in  grace  like  the  stoop  of  the  breeze, — 

Though  round  thee  a  halo  of  beauty  is  woven, 

That  brightens,  like  moonshine,  thy  home  in  the  trees  ! 

Yet,  Bird  of  the  South, — strange  and  beautiful  vision ! — 
'Tis  not  for  these  charms  that  I  follow  thy  flight, — 

There  still  is  about  thee  a  spell  more  Elysian 

Than  all  that  have  flashed  on  my  wondering  sight ! 

Last  eve,  as  I  mused  by  the  door  of  my  dwelling, —  eeao 
While  stars,  through  the  forest,  like  spirit  lamps,  beamed, 

I  heard  in  the  distance  a  music  excelling 
All  melody  ever  rapt  fancy  had  dreamed  ! 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  153 

It  rose  on  the  air  like  the  hymn  of  an  angel, — 
It  fell  on  my  heart  like  a  silvery  rain  ; — 

It  banished  the  griefs  that  encumbered  my  manhood. 
And  brought  back  the  bowers  of  Eden  again  ! 

Oh,  wild  as  the  dream  of  the  wandering  prophet, 
The  raptures  that  song  to  my  breast  did  impart ; 

I  saw  the  bright  ladder  descending  from  heaven, 
And  felt  the  good  angels  come  down  in  my  heart. 

That  song  was  thine  own  one,  sweet  bird  of  the  distance ! 

Fair  Bird  of  the  South  !  that  wild  minstrelsy  thine 
Thine,  thine  is  the  art  that  can  sweeten  existence, 

With  spells  of  the  angeis, — with  music  divine  ! 

Then,  Bird  of  my-own-land  !  pour  forth  thy  wild  num 
bers, 

And  gladden  the  sky  with  its  sabbath  again  ! 
Though  bright  are  thy  pinions —  the  music  that  slumbers 

In  the  breast  of  the  minstrel,  more  homage  will  gain  ! 


MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 

The  fount  from  which  my  being  flowed, — 
The  calm,  pure  fount  of  life  and  love, — 

The  star  that  o'er  my  cradle  glowed, 

And  beamed  my  boyhood's  path  above, — 

Have  ceased  from  earth — and  lonely  now — 

Oh,  mother  ! — o'er  thy  grave  I  bow  ! 

From  childhood's  dawn,  to  manhood's  hour, 
Thy  tender  love  was  still  my  guide, — 

It  nurtured  first  the  opening  flower, 
And  all  my  infant  wants  supplied, — 

Yes,  every  life-pulse  of  my  heart 

Drew  from  thy  breast  its  vital  part  ! 

What  visions  of  my  infant  years, 

What  scenes  of  love,  what  sounds  of  joy, 

What  prayers,  caresses,  smiles,  and  tears, — 
What  counsels  to  the  wayward  boy  ! — 

Now  swim  before  my  care-worn  eyes, 

While  bending  where  my  mother  lies  ! 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  155 

Her  high,  pale  brow,  her  patient  smile, 
Her  lips,  where  tenderest  kisses  hung, 

Her  graceful  form,  though  bent  awhile, 
So  queenly  when  her  life  was  young — 

All  pass  athwart  my  throbbing  brain, 

And  bring  her  image  back  again  ! 

I  see  her  by  my  father's  side, 

In  holiest  love  and  union  blest ; 
I  see  them  smiling  in  their  pride, 

O'er  happy  children  'round  them  pressed, — * 
And  now,  with  fond  parental  care, 
They  kneel  in  morn  and  evening  prayer  ! 

Oh,  she  was  all  that's  brightest — best — 
So  "  pure  in  heart,"  so  rich  in  mind, — 

Of  every  social  worth  possessed, 
By  every  Christian  grace  refined — 

Faultless  she  filled  her  part  below 

And  passed  where  only  such  may  go  ! 

She's  passed  to  heaven — but  oh  how  dark 
The  sky  from  which  her  smile  has  gone — 


]56  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

No  star  now  lives  to  guide  my  bark, 
No  fount  to  cheer  my  spirit  on  ! — 
Yet,  Hill  my  life  shall  cease  to  be, 
Her  memory  shall  abide  with  me  ! 

1853. 


LE  BON  TEMPS  VIEXDKA! 

A  Motto  on  a  Ring. 

Though  sad  our  hearts  at  parting  now, 

As  well  such  loving  hearts  may  be  ! 
Though  SOITOW  shadows  either  brow, 

And  time  spreads  forward  gloomily  : 
Though  months  may  pass  without  delight, 

Like  nights  without  a  single  star, 
Yet,  still,  my  love,  let  hope  be  bright, 

For  oh,  le  bon  temps  viendra  ! 

The  happy  days  Fve  passed  with  thee, 

Like  Sabbaths  bright,  have  o'er  me  flown  ! 
These  scenes  have  Edens  seemed  to  me, 

And  thou,  my  Eve,  my  joy,  my  own  ! 
Yet  oh,  a  deeper  gloom  they'd  fling, 

Like  Paradise  beheld  afar, 
If  heard  I  not  an  angel  sing, — 

Hope  on  !     Le  bon  temps  viendra  ! 

Yes,  dearest,  though  for  months  we  part, 
The  future  holds  one  gladdening  light, 


158  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  , 

Whose  rays  shall  bless  my  lonely  heart 
'Mid  separation's  gloomy  night. 

Its  beams  through  time  and  distance  reach, — 
Bright  prophets  on  a  golden  car  ! — 

And  seem  to  breathe  in  gentlest  speech, 
Ah  yes,  le  bon  temps  viendra  ! 

Then  smile  away  these  gloomy  fears, 

These  griefs  that  cloud  that  pearly  brow  ; 
Let  not  those  eyes  be  dimmed  with  tears, 

Nor  sadness  shade  thy  beauty  now  ! 
In  faith  and  hope,  the  time  abide, — 

The  advent  of  the  joyous  star, — 
For  oh,  across  the  future's  tide, 

Sweet  love,  le  bon  temps  viendra  ! 

Oh  yes,  the  time  of  joy  shall  come, 

With  sweeter  scenes  and  brighter  skies  ! 
The  lamps  of  love  our  hearts  illume, 

Keflected  in  thy  smiling  eyes  ! 
Our  souls  united  then  shall  own 

An  ecstacy  no  grief  can  mar, — 
And  feel  how  sweet  the  gentle  tone, 

That  sang  le  bon  temps  viendra  ! 


THE  NATAL  STAB. 

Its  was  a  faith  believed  of  old, 

That  when  a  spirit  left  the  sky, 
In  human  beauty  to  unfold, 

A  star  assumed  a  place  on  high  : 
That  o'er  the  angel,  thus  earth-given, 

That  star  with  guardian  brightness  shone, 
Swaying  its  destinies,  'till  heaven 

Eeclaimed  the  wanderer  as  its  own  ! 

Thus,  lady,  o'er  thy  cradle  beamed 

A  star,  with  mild,  auspicious  ray, 
Whose  beauty  has  but  brighter  gleamed 

With  each  returning  natal  day  : 
Now,  all  unclouded,  from  its  throne, 

It  greets  again,  at  this  sweet  hour. 
The  cherub  to  a  woman  grown, — 

The  bud  unfolded  to  a  flower  ! 

That  star  has  seen  thy  girlish  grace 
Developing  itself  in  love  ; 


160  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Its  beams  have  lit  thy  maiden  face, 
With  light  and  beauty  from  above. 

Sweet  pleiad,  with  prophetic  glow, 
It  now  illumes  the  Future's  sky, 

And,  like  a  sibyl,  smiles  to  show 
How  blest  thy  life  will  wander  by  ! 

Oh  !  may  that  star,  with  gentlest  ray, 

Thus  ever  keep  its  sweet  control ; 
No  cloud  to  dim  its  diamond  ray, — 

Its  beauty  mirrored  in  thy  soul ! 
And  oft,  as  each  revolving  year 

Shall  bring  thy  joyous  birthday  round, 
Still  smile  as  sweet  on  thy  career, — 

Still  find  thy  brow  with  roses  crowned  ! 


TO  EGERIA. 

An  Unknown  Correspondent. 

Sweet  Spirit !  though,  upon  my  vision, 

Thy  starry  eyes  have  never  beamed, 
And  only,  in  some  hour  Elysian, 

My  heart  has  of  thy  beauty  dreamed  : 
Though,  like  the  nymph  of  Roman  fable, 

Thy  words  alone  have  reached  mine  ear, — 
Sweet  as  the  songs  that  sinless  Abel 

In  Eden's  twilight  paused  to  hear, — 
Yet  still  my  soul  thine  influence  feels, 
And,  Numa-like,  before  thee  kneels  ! 

Oh,  Spirit  Love  !  thy  viewless  pinions 

Are  rustling  'round  my  forehead  now, — 
I  hear  thy  song  in  Love's  dominions, 

And  feel  thy  breath  upon  my  brow  ! — 
My  soul  is  tranced  ! — the  love  is  strongest 

That  weaves  its  spell  around  the  soul ! — 
Celestial ! — 'twill  endure  the  longest, — 

Exempt  from  earth  and  time's  control ! — • 


162  POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Then  let  me  gaze  upon  thine  eyes, 
And  on  thy  brow's  young  Paradise  ! 

Fondly,  last  night,  in  troubled  slumbers, 

My  spirit  sought  the  destined  spot, — 
There  sweetly,  still,  in  magic  numbers, 

I  heard  thy  song,  but  found  thee  not, 
Oh,  nymph  and  angel !  why  deceive  me  ? — 

Why  not  the  promised  trysting  keep  ? — 
Why,  of  thy  beauty  thus  bereave  me, — 

Even  in  "the  pictured  land  of  sleep  ?" 
I  yearn, — I  die, — thy  form  to  press, 
Unearthly  in  its  loveliness  ! 

The  "emerald  waves,"  in  dimples  gleaming, 

Still  lave,  like  love,  that  beauteous  shore, — 
The  angeled  stars,  from  bright  urns  beaming,— 

Their  liquid  silver  on  it  pour  ! — 
Love  calls  again  ! — oh,  viewless  spirit, — 

Such  deep  devotedness  requite, — 
Let  me  the  bliss  of  heaven  inherit, 

Clasping  thy  beauty  there  to-night. 
My  heart  will  own  no  love  beside, 
But  kneel  to  thee,  my  Spirit  Bride  ! 


ELEGY, 

On  a  Mocking-Bird  killed  by  a  Cat 

Weep  for  the  feathered  minstrel  gone 

The  woodland  wit,  the  poet  wild, 
The  troubadour  of  silver  tone, 

Euterpe's  winged  and  frolic  child  ! — 
His  song  is  hushed,  his  gay  laugh  done, 

His  bright  eye  motionless  and  dim  ; 
No  more  his  fair  wings  glint  the  sun  ; 

The  Loved  of  beauty, — weep  for  him  ! 

From  honeysuckle  groves  he  came, 

From  wooing  eyes,  to  gaze  on  hers  ; 
To  syllable  in  song  her  name, 

And  shame  her  duller  worshippers  : 
And  not  in  vain  his  ardent  love, — 

He  won  the  lad/s  homage  deep ; 
She  prized  her  bird  all  beaux  above  ; 

But  he  is  dead, — then  for  him  weep  ! 

Ah  yes  !  how  oft  in  shade  and  sun, 

I've  seen  her  with  the  winged  bard  play, 


164  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Forgetful  of  the  human  one, 

Who  envious  gazed  his  soul  away  ! 

And  oh  !  what  tones  that  bird  would  breathe, 
When  playing  with  her  cherry  lips  ! — 

As  who  would  not  ! — yet  mourn  his  death, 
For  'twas  a  sudden,  sad  eclipse  ! 

One  mild  and  rosy  summer  eve, 

When  revelling  in  light  and  song, 
With  but  one  tone  that  seemed  to  grieve 

His  beauteous  mistress  absent  long, — 
As  through  the  room  his  voice  he  flung, 

In  tones  would  craze  a  Malibran, 
The  parlor-tiger  on  him  sprung, 

And  WILLIE  was  "  a  ruined  man  !" 

Yet  bright  his  life  !  her  smiles  by  day 

Were  more  than  flowers  or  song  to  him, 
And,  through  the  night,  his  amorous  lay, 

Around  her  dreaming  couch,  would  swim : 
And  oh  !  what  glimpses  met  his  eye, 

Of  charms  but  dreamed  by  other  swains  ! — 
If  I  such  beauty  could  espy, 

Grimalkin  too  might  end  my  pains  ! 


POEMS    OF   THE    SOUTH.  165 

Yet  mourn  for  him  ! — Ye  rival  bards, 

In  gushing  strains  of  sorrow  weep  ! 
His  fate, — alas  !  like  Chatetard's, — 

Ye  should  in  long  remembrance  keep  : 
For  had  he  never  shaped  his  breath 

To  amorous  odes,  'round  Beauty's  shrine, 
He  had  not  met  his  cruel  death, 

Nor  filled  this  cat-a-logue  of  mine  ! 

Then  Willie  mourn  !  for  she  will  weep 

Her  poet-pet,  whose  songs  are  o'er  ; 
Oh  !  sweet  as  Ovid's  be  his  sleep, 

Where  cats  and  beaux  shall  vex  no  more  ! 
I  mourn  him  too, — yet  own  nay  tears 

Are  like  nay  numbers,  somewhat  flat, — 
For  through  the  shades,  my  fancy  hears 

The  Mock-bird  crying — 'Scat !  escat ! 


A  VALENTINE. 

May  I,  as  thy  Valentine, 

Lady  fair, — 

Place  upon  thy  pictured  shrine, 
Votive  song  and  flower  of  mine, 
Which  may  have,  through  grace  of  thine, 

Welcome  there  ? 

Months  have  passed  since  last  we  met, 

Lady  fair  : 

But  my  heart  cannot  forget ; 
On  its  page  thy  seal  is  set, 
And  it  views  thy  beauty  yet, 

Everywhere  ! 

All  thy  gentleness  and  grace, 

Lady  fair ; 

Fairy  form  and  angel  face, — 
Such  as  dreaming  painters  trace, — 
In  my  memory  keep  a  place, — 

Pictured  there  ! 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  167 

Not  an  evening  passes  by, 

Lady  fair, 

But  I  turn  my  weary  eye, 
Sadly  to  yon  Western  sky, 
And,  in  lonely  yearning,  sigh 

"She  is  there!" 

Thou  art  to  me  as  a  star, 

Lady  fair ; 

Which  I  kneel  to  from  afar ; 
May  no  cloud  thy  beauty  mar  ; 
And,  upon  thy  golden  car, 

Hear  my  prayer ! 

May  thy  life  be  ever  bright, 

Lady  fair, 

Clasped  in  Love's  resplendent  light, 
Never  doomed  to  sorrow's  night, — 
Disappointment's  withering  blight, — 

Grief  or  care  ! 


TO  A  DARK-EYED  GEORGIAN. 

My-dark  eyed  Georgian  ! — I  have  gazed 

On  beauty's  wildest  forms, 
Who  lit  life's  pathway  with  their  rays, 

As  rainbows  circle  storms — 
Entranced,  have  knelt  in  Persian  faith, 

Before  their  starry  light, 
And  hailed  them  with  rny  spirit's  breath — 

The  beautiful — the  bright ! 
Oh,  woman's  form  was  ever  dear 

Unto  this  trembling  heart  : 
She  seemed  an  angel  sent  to  cheer 

Man's  else  unfriended  part — 
But  ne'er  till  I  beheld  thy  face — 

Sweet  peri  of  my  path — 
Did  I  imagine  what  sweet  grace 

Celestial  woman  hath  ! 

Yes,  dark-eyed  Georgian — when  mine  eyes 

In  pleasure's  festal  hour, 
First  saw  thine  image  sweetly  rise, 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  169 

With  all  its  queenly  dower 
Of  charms,  might  win  an  anchorite 

To  leave  his  thoughts  of  heaven, 
And  be  content  with  earthly  light — 

To  smile,  though  unforgiven  ! — 
I  felt  that  all  my  heart  had  framed, 

When  rapt  in  dreams  elysian, 
Was  far  surpassed  in  loveliness, 

By  thee — ecstatic  vision  ! 
No  more  were  other  faces  fair, 

No  more  my  heart  was  free — 
All  I  had  ever  yearned  to  share 

Was  centred  sweet  in  thee. 

But,  dark-eyed  Georgian — not  alone, 

Is  beauty's  impress  thine — 
Thy  face  is  mind's  imperial  throne, 

Thy  heart  is  Virtue's  shrine. 
The  gift  of  goodness  and  of  love, 

Of  holy  hopes  and  thought, 
Belongs  to  thee — not  heaven  above 

Has  hearts  more  richly  fraught  ! 
Thy  own  beloved  and  sunny  clime — 

Clime  of  fair  and  free  ! — 


170  POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Hath  breathed  its  influence  in  thy  heart — 

Is  shadowed  forth  in  thee  ! 
Its  chiming  waters  tune  thy  voice, 

Its  roses  tint  thy  lip, 
Its  sweetest  scenes  and  sounds  are  thine, 

In  chastened  fellowship  ! 


Then,  dark-eyed  Georgian, — deign  to  smile 

Upon  thine  humble  bard, 
Whose  heart  and  harp,  entranced  the  while, 

Will  find  a  sweet  reward  ; 
And  should  thy  beauty  never  be 

Unto  his  longing  given, 
Fondly  he  will  remember  thee, 

As  saints  a  dream  of  heaven  ! 
And  oft,  within  his  backwoods'  home, 

Beneath  the  Western  Star, 
At  eve  thy  memory  shall  come, 

And  bless  him  from  afar  ! 
And  then  his  lyre  shall  proudly  wake 

Its  votive  numbers  wild, 
And  hail  thee  still,  with  homage  deep, 

As  Georgia's  loveliest  child  ! 


TO  ANGELINA,  WITH  A  BIBLE. 

A  Versified  Incident. 

My  innocent  and  lovely  child, 

At  parting,  claimed  a  gift  from  me, 

And  as  her  blue  eyes  sweetly  smiled, 
I  asked  her  "  Love,  what  shall  it  be  ?" 

She  quick  replied,  in  accents  mild, 
"  An  Arbor  Vitce  sprig  from  thee." 

What !  only  that  ?     No  sparkling  gem  ? 

No  toy,  nor  wreath,  nor  jewelry  ? 
No  treasure  which,  when  shewn  to  them, 

Thy  playmates  shall  with  envy  see  ?" 
Her  sweet  reply  was  still  the  same, 

"  An  Arbor  Vitce.  sprig  from  thee." 

"  Well,  dearest,  'tis  a  strange  request, 

From  one  so  artless,  young,  and  free  ; 
The  only  mandate  of  thy  breast, 


172  POEMS   OF    THE   SOUTH. 

An  emblem  of  my  love  for  thee  : 
Yet  I  will  grant  the  fond  behest, — 
"  An  Arbor  Vitce  sprig  from  me  1" 

So  here  it  is,  but  with  it  take 
Another  from  a  kindred  tree — 

"The  Tree  of  Life  " — whose  leaves  will  make 
More  fadeless  bowers  of  love  for  thee  : 

Oh,  keep  it  for  thy  father's  sake, 
This  Arbor  Vitce  gift  from  me  ! 


TO  VIRGINIA. 

Beauty  !  other  lips  are  breathing 

Vows  of  gentlest  love  to  thee  ; 
Other  eyes  bright  smiles  are  wreathing, 

Which  thine  own  responsive  see  ; 
Brows,  still  fair  with  boyhood's  beauty, 

Vail  them  at  thy  flowery  feet, — 
"  Love  for  thee,  their  pride,  their  duty  !"- 

Such  the  song  their  lips  repeat. 


How  can  I,  then,  lone  and  saddened, — 

Gone  the  spring-time  of  my  heart, — 
Hope  to  see  thy  young  brow  gladdened 

By  the  praise  I  could  impart  ? 
No,  my  words  would  sink  in  silence, 

'Mid  the  music  'round  thee  poured  ; 
Or,  like  birds  o'er  blossomed  islands, 

Pass  unheeded  and  unheard  ! 


174  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Yet,  believe  me,  young  and  dimpled 

Beauty,  with  the  laughing  eyes, — 
Willowed  springs,  clear  and  unrimpled, 

Holding  spots  of  sunny  skies, — 
That  no  heart  before  thee  bending, 

Proffering  prayer,  and  song,  and  sigh,- 
Vow  and  praise  in  worship  blending, — 

Loves  thee  half  so  well  as  I ! 


FLOKENCE. 
i. 

Behold  where  sky  and  water  meet, 
A  star  is  twinkling  low  and  sweet  ! — 
Its  rays  haye  shone,  for  one  brief  hour, 
Unequalled  in  its  azure  bower  ! — 
Lo  !   now  it  sinks  in  beauty  lone, — 

Smiles  a  minute  and  is  gone  ! 
From  us  is  gone, — but  oh,  'tis  given 
A  morning  light  to  another  heaven  ! 

n. 

How  like  to  it,  tne  angel  child, 
Who,  for  a  minute,  with  us  smiled  ! — 
Upon  the  verge  of  life  just  beamed, — 
A  heavenly  emanation  seemed  ! — 

Then  faded  from  our  gazing  eyes, 
Leaving  lone  and  dark  our  skies  ! 
Yet  oh,  sweet  thought — she  too  is  given 
A  morning  light  to  another  heaven  ! 


LOVE'S  EMBLEMS. 

A  star  upon  the  brow  of  heaven, 

In  peerless  beauty  glowing  ; 
A  rose  round  which  the  breeze  of  even, 

With  sighs  of  love,  is  flowing  ; 
A  harp  whose  melting  music  sweet 

Is  won  by  trembling  fingers  ; 
A  verdant  blest  and  pure  retreat, 

Where  virgin  nature  lingers  ; 
Are,  lady,  emblems  true  of  thee, — 
Of  fragrance,  music,  light  and  purity  ! 

A  cloud  by  fitful  breezes  driven, 

Athwart  a  dark  and  wintry  sky  ; 
A  tree  by  lightning  rudely  riven, 

And  left  in  loneliness  to  die  ; 
A  bird,  that  falls  with  pinion  broken, 

Far  from  the  nest  that  gave  him  birth  ; 
Love's  once  remembered,  treasured  token, 

Now  left  to  moulder  on  the  earth  ; 
Are  emblems  of  the  bard,  whose  hand 
Now  strikes  his  broken  lyre  at  thy  command  ! 


POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  177 

The  star  will  burn  forever  bright ; 

The  cloud  through  storm,  must  wander  ; 
The  rose  will  smile  'mid  Spring's  delight ; 

The  tree  fall  'neath  the  thunder  ; 
Long  will  the  harp  with  music  gush  ; 

The  bird  ne'er  lift  his  pinion  ; 
Sweet  nature's  scene  with  brightness  blush  ; 

Kevive  not  love's  dominion  ; 
Such  is  the  difference,  lady  fair, 
Between  the  lots  that  thou  and  I  must  share  ! 

Yet,  sometimes,  lady,  when  those  viewest 

A  cloud  float  by  a  silver  star  ; 
Or  hear'st  a  lone  bird,  in  the  forest, 

Sigh  to  a  rose  his  music  prayer  : 
Or  see'st  amid  some  lovely  scene, 

A  blasted  tree  stand  sad  and  lonely  ; 
Remember  him,  whose  heart,  once  sheen, 

Is  sorrow's  now,  and  sorrow's  only, — 
And  who,  although  he  asks  not  fame, 
Would  have  thee  sometimes  gently  breathe  his  name. 


TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  STKANGER. 

From  "  The  Croakers  in  Washington.'1 

As,  sailing  over  Southern  seas, 

The  pilgrim  views  some  beauteous  island, 
Verdant  with  groves  of  fragrant  trees 

And  grassy  slope  and  sunny  highland, 
That  smiles  beneath  the  tropic-heaven, 

An  Eden,  yet  to  man  ungiven  ; 
As,  in  some  blue  and  balmy  night, 

When  all  the  sky  with  stars  is  golden, 
The  gazer  sees  some  orb  more  bright 

Float  newly  out  amid  the  olden  ; 
Or  as,  in  some  old  prophet's  dream, 

An  angel  stooped  before  his  vision, 
With  eyes  as  blue  as  Hebron's  stream, 

And  form  and  features  all  elysian  : 
So,  lovely  stranger,  on  mine  eyes, 

And  in  mine  heart,  hath  shone  thy  beauty, 
With  all  this  sudden,  sweet  surprise, — 
With  all  this  birthright  of  the  skies, — 

Till  Love  for  thee  hath  grown  a  duty  ! 


POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  179 

And  yet,  fair  one,  I  know  thee  not, — 

As  strangers  we  have  met  and  parted  ; 
My  shadow  ne'er  has  dimmed  thy  thought, 
Thine  ear  the  words  hath  never  caught, 

Of  praise,  that  on  my  lips  have  started, 
Though  oft  in  brilliant  halls  I've  seen 

Thy  form  amid  the  gay  and  witty, 
Yet  I  am  sure  that  brow  serene 

Knew  not  that  I  was — "  in  the  city  !" 
Yes,  in  the  "  White  House,"  'mid  the  press 

Of  belles  and  fops  and  politicians, 
I've  watched  thy  form,  all  gracefulness, 

Glide  to  the  spell  of  the  musicians. 
One  night — perhaps  you  may  recall 

The  scene — last  winter  at  Carusi's, — 
I  stood  like  Lara  by  the  wall, 

You  like  Calypso  'mid  the  Muses  ; 
Though  all  the  forms  around  were  bright, 

And  bright  the  candles  and  peonies, 
I  knew  not  whence  arose  the  light, 

Or  if  the  music  were  Korponay's  ; 
I  only  saw  those  sapphire  eyes, 

Amid  thy  blushes,  sweetly  burning, 


180  POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

And  envied  all, — their  destinies, 

On  whom  thy  gentle  smiles  were  turning. 

Again  I  saw  that  beauteous  brow, — 

Than  the  Madonna's  softer  now, 
Bend  lily-like  within  the  temple  ; 

And,  while  your  thoughts  own'd  heaven  s  control, 

Mine,  truant,  heard  not  Mr.  Spr le, 

But  dreamed  about  thy  rosy  dimple  ! 


One  eve  too,  when  the  sunset's  shade 

Around  the  Capitol  was  playing, 
I  met  thee  on  the  Esplanade, 

And  saw  thee  'neath  the  Elm  trees  straying  : 
Though  green  the  sward,  and  cool  the  trees, — 

Thanks  to  the  art  of  Jemmy  Holier  ! 
Yet  none  of  them  my  heart  could  please 

When  thou  wert  absent,  lovely  strayer  ! 
But  all  in  vain  ! — you  little  guess 

The  thoughts  thus  dwelling  in  my  bosom, — 
Like  flowers  that  in  some  wilderness, 

For  distant  stars,  unheeded  blossom  ! 
For  though  I've  heard  thy  sweet  name  spoken 
lips,  it  is  to  me  a  stranger's  token  ! 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  181 

Yes  we  are  strangers  ;  far  apart 

Our  paths  through  life  have  been  divided, 
As  streams  that  from  far  fountains  start, 

And  only  once  have  nearer  glided. 
My  home  is  far,  where  orange  bowers, 

In  green  and  golden  beauty,  bloom  ; 
When  birds  and  blossoms  fill  the  hours 

With  song,  and  lustre,  and  perfume  : 
By  Mexic's  soft  and  sunny  sea, 

Whose  waters  lapse  on  silver  sand, 
And  skies,  as  bright  as  skies  may  be, 

Curve  sweetly  o'er  an  Eden  land. 
Thy  childhood's  smiling  scene  reposes 
Beneath  the  sunset's  glowing  roses, — 
Where  limpid  rivers  glide  along, 
Through  hills  of  green,  in  light  and  song, 
And  prairie  flowers  their  sweets  exhale, 
Like  richest  incense,  on  the  gale. — 
Their  loveliness  those  skies  have  given, 
As  almoners  of  bounteous  heaven, 
To  frame  thy  form,  thy  mind,  thy  heart, 
With  all  the  wealth  they  could  impart. 
There  is  thy  home,  thy  hopes,  thy  love, — 

Oh  treasurv  of  sweet  affections  ! 


182  POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

And  there  thy  gentlest  fancies  rove, 
To  cull  the  heart's  best  recollections. 

But,  beauteous  maiden,  could  I  gain 

Thy  smiles,  to  light  my  Southern  dwelling 

I  then  should,  Paris-like,  obtain 
A  treasure  all  its  wealth  excelling. 

But  no  !  such  dreams  His  vain  to  tell ; — 

We  are  but  strangers,— fare-the-well  I 
WASHINGTON  CITY,  1845. 


THE  CAPITOL  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

From  "  The  Croakers  in  Washington," 

"  If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight." — Scott. 

How  beautiful  the  sky  to-night ! 

The  moon  is  forth  in  all  her  glory ; 
And,  white  as  snow,  her  waves  of  light 
Koll  sweetly  'round  yon  terraced  height, 

As  when  of  old,  in  Grecian  stoiy, 
She  stooped  upon  the  hills  of  Thrace, 
To  kiss  Endymion's  sleeping  face  : 
Then  come,  sweet  one,  and  let  us  stray 

Beside  yon  lofty  walls,  to-night, 
That  in  the  moonlight  lift  away, 

With  column,  arch,  and  architrave, 

With  pillared  dome,  and  sculptured  nave, 
More  beautiful  and  grand  than  those 
The  Wizard  saw  by  "  fair  Melrose," 
When  half  in  shadow,  half  in  beam, 
They  gave  his  timbrel's  sweetest  theme  ; 


184  POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Or  Albion's  Pilgrim  sadly  viewed, 
When  by  the  Caesar's  halls  he  stood, 
And  heard  from  far  the  monks'  te  deum 
Float,  dirge-like,  through  the  Coliseum  ! 


You  smile,  sweet  one,  that  thus  my  heart 

Grows  sentimental  as  we  wander  ;— - 
Well,  at  your  jest,  such  thoughts  depart, 

And  different  topics  we  will  ponder. 
We're  on  the  terrace  ;  gaze  below, — 

How  silent  sleeps  the  Federal  City  ! 
With  all  its  crowds  of  great  and  low, 

Its  belles  and  fops,  its  weak  and  witty  ! 
From  far  Potomac's  silvery  stream, 
Just  glimmering  in  yon  random  beam, — 
To  here  where  Tiber  creeps  along, 
Immortal  made  in  Little's  song, 
As  "  Goose-creek  once," — your  eye  may  see 
The  far-famed  city  of  the  Free  ! 
Wide  is  the  view, — but  at  our  feet 
Its  loveliest  scenes  in  softness  meet. 
These  verdant  groves,  these  grassy  lawns, 

These  founts  that  in  the  moonlight  play, 


POEMS   OF   THE    SOUTH.  185 

These  trellised  bowers  which  art  adorns, — 
These  walks  that  wind  through  flowers  away — 

All  form  a  scene,  which  might  be  famed, 
Like  Valarnbrosa's  myrtle  glades, — 

Or  else  an  Eden  fitly  named, 

With  all  its  moonlit  banks  and  shades, — 

But  here, — in  Democratic  sounds, — 

Is  only  styled  the  "  Public  Grounds  \" 


But  why,  sweet  one,  should  thus  my  lip 

Sport  with  the  bathos  of  the  scene, 
When  blest  with  thy  companionship, 

Thy  radiant  form  and  graceful  mien  ? 
Oh,  turn  thy  face  toward  the  heaven, 

And  let  the  moon  sink  in  thine  eyes, — 
Fair  founts, — to  whose  still  depths  are  given 

The  loveliest  secrets  of  the  skies  ! 
Yes,  though  bright  forms  around  me 

Are  wandering  on  the  esplanade, 
And  frequent  falls  the  lover's  vow, 

In  low,  deep  tones  of  homage  paid, — 
Though  through  yon  trees  their  white  robes  glance, 
Like  angels  in  a  prophet's  trance, — 


186  POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Yet  none  can  equal  thy  fair  form, 

Thy  crescent  brow  and  silken  tresses  ! 
Thine  eyes  with  love-light  sweetly  warm, 

Those  lips,  this  wanton  breeze  caresses  ! 
No,  not  the  bright  shapes  on  these  walls, — 

The  Painter's  and  the  Sculptor's  Dreams,- 
That  decorate  these  stately  halls, 

With  Art's  most  weird  and  magic  beams,- 

In  Persico's  or  Weir's  sweet  themes, — 
Can  so  my  wandering  heart  impress, — 

(Columbus  like  by  tempests  hurled,) — • 
As  thou,  with  thy  pure  loveliness, — 

The  timid  EVE  of  my  New  World  ! — 
Can  thy  deep  spells  of  love  impart, — 
ROSE  STANDISH  of  my  pilgrim  heart  ! 


But  not  for  me  such  thoughts  as  these  ! 
The  boy  may  love  the  Pleiades, — 
That  nightly  swarm  of  golden  bees ; — 
The  brook  may  love  the  soaring  moon, 

And  shrine  her  in  its  trembling  heart ; 
The  floweret  love  the  wild-bird's  tune, 

Brought  by  the  breeze,  but — to  depart  ; 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  187 

The  minstrel  may  uplift  his  wishes, 
To  gain  the  better  "  loaves  and  fishes," 
Reserved  for  politician's  dishes  ; 
But  I  can  never  dream  of  thee, 
But  as  the  sea-shell  of  the  sea, 
Which,  when  afar  'tis  rudely  borne, 
Will  for  its  absent  mistress  mourn, 
And  in  its  wreathed  heart  retain 

% 

The  echoes  of  her  long-gone  strain  : 
Or  as  some  hungry  Clerk  recalls 
The  hours  he  spent  in  Treasury  halls, 
Ere  the  remorseless  guillotine 
His  head  and  pocket  passed  between  ! 


Well,  be  it  so  :  if  beauty's  smile, 
The  moonlight  to  a  gloomy  day, 

May  not  my  lonely  heart  beguile, 
There  is  for  hope  another  way, 
"Ambition"  shall  assume  the  sway  ! 

Then,  ""look  out,"  lady  ! — in  the  years 
That  journey  up  the  hill  of  time, 

The  sun  of  Fame  his  crest  uprears, 
And  floods  with  light  a  halcyon  clime  ! 


188  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Mayhap  the  bard,  who  hy  thee  now 

His  nonsense  and  his  music  breathes, 
Shall  yet,  around  his  pallid  brow, 

Entwine  the  oak  and  myrtle  wreaths  ! 
Things  quite  as  strange  have  happ'd,  they  say ; 

Yon  lordly  dome  invites  him  on — 
Where  Beiiton,  Webster,  Polk,  and  Clay, 
Calhoun,  and  Adams,  have  borne  sway, 
With  many  others  of  renown, — 
And  some  have  won  the  laurel  crown. 
Well,  should  it  come,  he'll  meekly  bear 
The  laurels  he  is  doomed  to  wear, 
And  even  then  with  joy  recall 
This  eve  beside  the  Capitol, 
When,  brighter  than  the  queen  of  night, 
Shone  on  his  heart  thy  beauty's  light, 
And  memory's  moonlight  then  shall  bless 
His  solitude's  dark  wilderness. 

WASHINGTON,  1845. 


ALBUM  LEAVES. 


What  is  an  Album  ? — 'Tis  a  shrine 
Where  Love  may  breathe  his  vows  divine  ; 
Where  Friendship  may  her  garland  place, 
And  Painting  lines  of  magic  trace  ; 
Where  music  may  combine  with  Song, 
The  praise  of  Beauty  to  prolong  ; 
Where  lips  that  smile,  or  brows  that  grieve, 
Alike  may  their  mementoes  leave  ; 
And  Bards,  like  me,  unknown  to  fame, 
May  carve  an  else-forgotten  name  ! 

I  like  it  well, — young  Beauty's  Book. 
It  is  a  glass,  where  many  look  ; — 
First  comes  a  brow  beloved  and  fair, — 
A  mother's,  sister's,  brother's  there  ! — 
And  now  a  face  more  brightly  beams, 
The  image  of  her  morning  dreams  ! — 


190  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Now  troops  of  friends  pass  smiling  by, 
With  laughing  cheek  and  kindling  eye  ; 
Till  last,  the  shifting  mirror  shows 
A  Bard,  with  spectacles  on  nose  ! 


Yes  'tis  a  glass  !  but  oh  it  keeps 

Each  image  that  across  it  sweeps, 

As  in  the  magic  of  Daguerre, 

The  vision  is  imprinted  there  ! 

How  priceless  then  ! — As  Memory's  friend, 

It  will  its  kind  assistance  lend, 

And  serve,  in  after  years,  to  show, 

The  friends  beloved,  "  long,  long  ago  !" 

How  blest,  sweet  one,  I  then  shall  be, 

If  you  can  "  catch  a  glimpse"  of  me  ! 


II. 


Amid  the  flowers  that  deck  this  shrine, 
The  gifts  of  Love  and  Friendship  dear, 

My  heart,  a  simple  wreath  would  twine, 
And  fondly  place  the  tribute  here  : 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Each  word  should  be  a  blossom  sweet, 
Culled  from  the  garden  of  the  heart, 

And  ever,  from  this  pure  retreat, 
Perpetual  incense  should  impart ! 


To  none  more  lovely,  could  I  give 

The  votive  wild  flowers  of  my  song, 
For,  in  thy  smiles  only  they  live, 

As  violets  in  the  sunshine  throng : 
Thy  brow  is  morning  to  their  love, 

Thine  eyes,  the  blue  sky  of  the  Spring, 
Thy  breath,  the  breeze  that  from  above 

Brings  health  and  sweetness  on  its  wing. 


The  flowers  of  song  ! — by  Love  perfumed  ! 

How  sweetly  'neath  thine  eyes  they  smile, 
As  Grecian  blossoms  brightest  bloomed 

In  Flora's  own  love-haunted  isle  ! 

Mine  are  the  humblest  offered  here, 

Yet  in  the  wreath  my  hand  has  wrought, 
Is  one  that  breathes  affection's  prayer, 

The  timid  fond— -forget  me  not. 


192  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

III. 

As,  on  some  favorite  forest  tree, 

The  wandering  school-boy  carves  ins  name, 
More  pleased  the  record  there  to  see, 

Than  were  it  on  the  scroll  of  fame  ; 
So,  lady,  on  this  pictured  shrine, 

The  treasured  Tablet  of  thy  heart, — 
With  more  delight  I  place  my  line, 

Than  on  the  trophied  page  of  art. 

How  sweet  to  think,  in  after  time 

Thine  eyes,  so  beautiful  and  bright, 
Will  smile  upon  my  artless  rhyme, 

And  gild  its  letters  with  their  light  ! 
How  pleasant  too  to  know  that  then 

Thy  rosy  lips — should  others  blame — 
Will  prize  this  tribute  of  my  pen, 

And  kindly  breathe  the  writer's  name. 

Could  I  but  weave  the  threads  of  life 
To  golden  tissues,  for  thy  sake — 

All  free  from  sorrow  care  or  strife, 
A  joyous  destiny  I'd  make. 


POEMS   OF    THE   SOUTH.  193 

Thy  fate  should  like  this  volume  be, — 
Composed  of  pictures,  songs,  and  flowers — 

While  friends  should  ever  circle  thee, 
And  Love  and  pleasure  wing  thine  hours  ! 

IV. 

As  sings  a  bird  in  Beauty's  bower, 

At  evening's  glad  and  golden  time, 
Pleased  to  delight  for  one  short  hour, 

Her  spirit,  by  his  artless  rhyme  : 
So  I  would  here,  with  kindred  feeling, 

Amid  these  flowery  leaves,  impart 
One  strain  of  minstrelsy,  revealing 

The  gentlest  wishes  of  my  heart  ! 

Oh,  may  the  lady  of  this  bower 

Be  ever  fair  as  she  is  now  ; 
May  no  unkind  or  evil  Power 

E'er  dun  the  beauty  of  her  brow  ; 
May  Hope  and  Love  distribute  roses 

Around  her  steps,  where'er  they  move, 
And  angel  pinions,  when  life  closes, 

Convey  her  to  the  bowers  above  ! 


194  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

V. 

What  should  a  brother's  offering  be 

Upon  a  sister's  shrine  ? 
Not  incense  sweet  of  Araby, 

Nor  gems  from  India's  mine. 
The  incense  on  the  gale  is  shed, 

And  melts  in  sighs  away ; 
The  gem  may  sparkle  on  the  head, 

But  lends  the  heart  no  ray ; 
These  then  would  ill  befit  a  love 
As  pure  as  angels  feel  above  ! 


What  offering  then  should  here  be  brought, 

Linked  with  a  brother's  name  ? 
Some  flower  from  fair  Circassia  caught  ? 

Some  picture  known  to  fame  ? 
Oh,  no,  the  flower  would  blush  awhile, 

Then  fade,  and  fall  away ; 
The  picture  might  awake  a  smile, 

But  ne'er  could  grief  allay  ; 
Some  other  token  sure  should  shine 
Upon  these  sibyl  leaves  of  thine  ! 


POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  195 

The  only  offering  I  can  bring, 

My  sister,  then,  to  thee, 
Is  one  I  would  not  give  a  king, 

Nor  could  he  rend  from  me. 
'Tis  humble,  poor,  and  little  worth, 

To  weave  with  songs  and  flowers, 
But  ah  !  'tis  thine  by  love  and  birth, 

In  joy's  or  sorrow's  hours. 
Then  take,  and  with  it  never  part, 
For,  JULIA,  'tis  thy  brother's  heart ! 

VI. 

As  erst  the  cold  Egyptian  stone, 

At  morning's  smile  awoke  to  life, 
And  breathed  a  soft  melodious  tone, 

With  feeling  and  affection  rife  ; 
So  this  unpolished  verse  of  mine, 

Beneath  thine  eyes  so  bright  and  dear, 
May  gush  with  music  in  each  line, 

And  prove  a  fitting  tribute  here  ! 

But  not  alone  did  Memnon's  lyre, 
With  beauty's  praises  gush  and  glow, 


D6  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

It  thrilled  with  a  prophetic  fire, 

That  promised  peace  and  pleasure  too  : 

Thus  would  my  verse  foretell  for  thee 
A  bright  and  joyous  path  through  life, 

Fair  woman's  happiest  destiny — 

Thrice  blest,  as  daughter,  sister,  wife  ! 


VII. 

A  forest  bird,  one  moonlight  night, 
Perched  on  a  tree,  by  beauty's  door, 

Arid  swinging  there  in  wild  delight, 
His  sylvan  numbers  warbled  o'er. 

He  seemed  to  strive  her  ear  to  please 

By  all  his  gentlest  melodies, 

And  to  enchant  the  listening  maid, 

With  his  untutored  serenade  ! 

Had  I  the  music  of  that  bird, 

Fair  girl,  for  whom  this  song  I  wreathe, 
How  gladly  in  each  glowing  word, 

Would  I  thy  praise  and  beauty  breathe  ! 
Thy  gentleness  and  maiden  grace, 
Thy  glowing  charms  of  form  and  face, 


POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH.  197 

In  blended  lustre  here  should  meet, 
And  make  e'en  my  rude  numbers  sweet. 

But  as  it  is,  alas  how  vain 

My  effort  to  delight  thine  ear  ! 
How  weak  and  worthless  is  the  strain 

That  I  so  idly  scribble  here  : — 
Less  welcome  than  the   wild-bird's  tune, 
My  song  will  perish  quite  as  soon, 
And,  with  the  morrow,  in  thy  thought, 
Both  bard  and  bird  will  be  forgot. 


IKEL  AN  D. 

A  Fragment.— 1848. 

While  thus  our  country,  in  her  eagle  flight, 
Bears  proudly  upward  to  the  Orb  of  Light, 
Shall  we,  her  sons,  forget  the  claims  of  those, 
Who  now  are  struggling  with  oppression's  woes  ? 
No,  o'er  the  waters  of  the  Atlantic  deep, 
Our  warmest  sympathies,  like  ark-doves,  sweep, 
And,  to  the  sufferers  of  the  Emerald  Isle, 
Would  bear  the  branch  of  love,  and  freedom's  smile! 
The  land  of  Grattan,  Curran,  Emmet,  Tone, — 
The  trampled  footstool  of  a  foreign  throne  ! 
Oh,  blood  of  martyrs  ! — staining  all  her  green, 
Soon  may  ye  wash  her  spotted  garments  clean  ! 
The  harp  of  Tara  ! — soon  may  it  pour  forth 
The  olden  anthems  through  the  island-north  ! — 
And  Emmet's  epitaph  ring  o'er  the  sea — 
"Erin  Mavourneen! — tliou  art  free — art  free!" 


THKEE  SONNETS. 


EDITH. 

Sweet  SAXON  maiden  !  in  thy  glowing  face, 
Thy  sky-lit  eyes,  and  yellow  locks  that  gleam 
In  their  rich  folds,  like  some  sunlighted  stream, 

The  old  ancestral  heritage  I  trace  ! 

No  Southern  blood  has  dimmed  thy  Northern  grace  ! 
The  island  mother's  beauty  still  is  seen 
In  thy  white  brow,  and  proud,  yet  modest,  mien  ! 

Bright  emanation  of  the  olden  race  ! 

That  race  has  many  trophies  :  its  brave  men 
Have,  immemorial,  been  stern  freedom's  sons  : 

Their  might  has  kept  the  tyrant  in  his  den  : — 
Race  of  the  Sydney  s  and  the  Washing  tons  ! 

Their  daughters,  too,  the  fairest  man  may  see  ! 

And  oh,  sweet  boast !  their  loveliest  one  in  THEE  ! 


200  POEMS   OF    THE   SOUTH. 

II. 
MARY. 

Oh,  for  one  dream  of  thee,  mine  early  love  ! 

Come,  in  thy  beauty,  to  my  couch,  to-night. 
Lonesome  and  weary,  like  some  prisoned  dove, 

I  pine,  dejected,  for  thine  eyes'  sweet  light  ! 

Oh,  come,  and  make  my  darkened  visions  bright; 
Wander  in  dream-land  with  my  soul  awhile  ; 
Pour  on  my  heart  the  star-shine  of  thy  smile, 

And  wake  its  pulses  into  young  delight ! 
What  raptures  once  were  ours !  what  scenes  of  bliss  ! 

How  fondly  then  our  forms  together  clung, 
How  sweet  the  rose-breath  of  thy  plighted  kiss  ! 

What  words  of  music  on  thy  timid  tongue  ! 
Though  they  are  gone,  sleep  may  restore  their  light, 

Then  come,  in  beauty,  to  my  couch  to-night ! 

in. 

CAROLINE. 

Sweet  Caroline  !  if,  as  the  poet  sings— 
A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever, 
And  its  pure  loveliness  decreaseth  never  ; 


POEMS   OF   THE   SOUTH.  201 

What  wealth  for  memory  thy  beauty  brings — 
Brightest  and  loveliest  of  created  things  ! 

Yes  !  though  my  years  now  nearly  double  thine, 
Thy  life  a  rising  star — fast  sinking  mine, 
Yet,  'round  my  heart,  thy  childish  beauty  clings, 
As  some  sweet  dream  that  ne'er  can  pass  away  ! 
Those  braided  curls  of  gold,  that  eye's  blue  ray, 
Brow,  cheek,  and  lips  serene  will  ever  shine, 
The  sweetest  gems  and  flowers  on  memory's  shrine. 
Then  thanks  to  heaven,  young  visitant-elysian, 
That  thy  rich  beauty  thus  hath  blest  my  vision  ! 


A  POKTKAIT. 

Hand  me  my  harp  ! — I'll  wake  once  more 

Its  silent  chords  for  lady  fair, 
And  strive  the  visions  to  restore, 

Which  once  came  bright  and  freely  there  ! 

Be  glad  the  strains  ! — for  she  who  claims 
The  minstrel's  art,  should  know  but  joy  ; 

Her  heart  is  filled  with  kindliest  aims. 
And  kindliest  deeds  her  life  employ. 

In  girlhood's  smiling  Eden  yet, 

She  lingers  with  the  birds  and  flowers  : 

Her  heart  has  never  known  Kegret, — 
Oh,  bright  and  sinless  girlhood's  hours  ! 

Beneath  her  steps  bright  roses  spring, — 
No  cloud  has  dimmed  her  morning  sky  ; 


POEMS   OF    THE   SOUTH.  203 

The  birds  of  hope,  with  gayest  wing, 
Are  ever  flashing  on  her  eye  ! 


'Tis  said  that  there  are  those  in  life, 
Who  make  the  joy  they  cannot  find, — 

Anrid  a  world  of  woe  and  strife, 
For  this,  was  framed  her  gentle  mind. 

Sweet  words  are  always  on  her  lips, — 
The  jewelry  and  flowers  of  thought ! — 

No  orient  pearls  can  these  eclipse, — 

For  these  with  mind  and  soul  are  fraught 

Her  beauty's  charms  I  cannot  tell ; 

Although  I  feel  them  on  my  heart ; 
They  need,  than  mine,  a  loftier  spell, — 

The  painter's  not  the  poet's  art ! 

And  yet,  in  all  her  loveliness, — 

Her  outward  charms,  her  inward  light, — 
I  know  not  one  so  formed  to  bless, — 

To  make  life  beautiful  and  bright. 


•204  POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH. 

Oh,  may  the  gentle  stars  that  guide 
The  destinies  of  man,  o'er  her, 

With  kindliest  influence,  preside, — 
On  her  their  choicest  rays  confer  ! 

For  oh,  if  these  to  her  repay 

One  half  the  joy  she  sheds  around, 

Sweet  hopes  will  ever  gild  her  way, 

And  keep  her  heart  with  roses  crowned  ! 


LOVE'S    LESSON. 

There  were  two  stars  in  heaven; 

They  loved  each  other  so, 
That,  as  'tis  said,  one  summer  even 

Together  they  did  flow  ; 
Their  beams  smiled  sweetly 

In  tenderness  above, 
And  formed  appropriately 

The  radiant  Star  of  Love  ! 

There  were  two  crystal  streamlets 

In  a  valley  side  by  side  ; 
The  music  of  their  voices 

From  each  to  each  replied  ; 
They  listened  to  each  other, 

And  nearer,  nearer  came, 
Till,  in  a  gentle  river, 

Their  course  became  the  same  ! 


206  POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH, 

Two  clouds,  one  Autumn  evening, 

Lay  cradled  near  the  sun  ; 
A  sympathetic  i'ervor 

Commingled  them  in  one  I — 
With  heaven's  "breath  impelling,, 

They  traced  the  sun  away, 
And,  like  an  angel's  pinion, 

Bore  to  eternal  day  I 

Such  emblems  nature  giveth, 

For  human  hearts  to  view  \ 
Why  then,  dear,  should  we  slight  tnem, 

And  apart  our  paths  pursue  ? — 
One  voice  breathes  through  all  things, — 

'Tis  lorong  to  live  alone  ! — 
Oh  !  heed,  my  love,  the  lesson, 

And  let  our  hearts  be  one  I 


REQUITED  LOVE. 

How  rich  and  gushing  through  my  heart 

The  tide  of  passion  flows  ! 
What  long-pent  feelings  stir  and  start  ! 

How  bursts  the  folded  rose  ! 
No  wilder  dream  of  pride  and  bliss, 

Did  e'er  my  life  control, 
Than  now  thy  fond  and  fervid  kiss 

Has  wakened  in  my  soul ! 

Oh,  lady  fair,  thy  form  and  face 

Are  fashioned  most  divine, 
And  every  charm  and  every  grace 

And  spell  of  love  are  thine  ! 
Long  had  I  knelt  before  thy  feet, 

As  Chaldean  to  his  star, 
But  never  dreamed  thy  love  would  greet 

My  worship  from  afar  ! 

But  now  I've  held  thee  in  my  arms,— 
Close  folded  to  my  breast, — 


208  POEMS   OF    THE    SOUTH  . 

With  all  thy  radiant  wealth  of  charms, — 

I  am  supremely  blest ! 
Not  when  the  first-formed  Beauty  came 

To  Eden's  morning  bowers, 
Knew  earth  a  joy,  or  love  a  flame, 

So  rapturous  as  ours  ! 

What  bliss  !  what  bliss  !  when  to  thy  lips 

Like  fondling  bees  I  clung, 
And  drank,  in  passions  wild  eclipse, 

The  honey  of  thy  tongue  ! 
My  arms  encircled  thy  sweet  form, 

As  Grecians  golden  waves 
Did  Venus,  when,  all  fresh  and  warm, 

She  rose  from  ocean's  caves  ! 

Oh,  man  may  be  a  God  on  earth, 

In  rapture  and  in  pride, 
When  beings  of  celestial  worth 

Cling  fondly  to  his  side. 
Queen  of  thy  race  !  I  feel  it  now, — 

Olympian  joy  I  feel, — 
Since  thou  hast  placed  upon  my  brow 

Affection's  royal  seal ! 


AT  PARTING. 

After  a  Family  Bereavement. 

How  painful  to  me  is  this  parting  of  sorrow  ! 

My  heart  yearns  in  anguish  to  turn  from  thy  side. 
No  light  will  illumine  my  pathway  to-morrow, 

But  'lone  in  its  darkness  mv  soul  must  abide  ! 

Though  death  has  bereft  me  of  all  that  was  nearest, 
Some  solace  remained  in  the  light  of  thy  love  : 

Yet  now,  from  my  bosom,  parts  all  that  is  dearest, 
And  fades  o'er  the  Deluge,  the  wing  of  the  Dove  ! 

Yet  think  not,  in  absence  or  grief  I'll  forget  thee, 
Though  now  in  the  deepest  despondence  I  go, 

My  heart  has  been  thine  since  in  rapture  it  met  thee, 
'Tis  now  doubly  thine  in  its  anguish  and  woe  ! 

My  passion  for  thee  is  so  strong  and  devoted, 

No  change  can  remove  from  my  bosom  thy  spell ; 

O'er  the  stream  of  its  joy  thine  image  has  floated, 
On  the  tide  of  its  sorrow  'twill  linger  as  well ! 


TO  MAKY. 

"  Oh  puri-sRima,  oh  bellissima, 
Dulcrs  virgo  Marie  /" 

While  others  sing  for  thee,  sweet  Mary, 
With  songs  as  soft  as  lover's  lute, 

I,  but  a  cold-toned  visionary, 

Gaze  on  thy  beauty,  and  am  mute  !— 

I  see  thy  charms  before  me  pass, 

Like  fair  birds  o'er  a  lake's  still  glass, 
And  feel  them  in  my  silent  heart, 
Not  shadows  merely,  but  a  part 

Of  my  own  spirit's  dearest  gems, 

As  jewels  are  a  diadem's  ! 

Had  I  a  voice,  young,  gentle  Mary, 

Could  please  thine  ear,  with  joyous  pride, 

Like  thine  own  musical  Canary, 

I'd  sing,  enraptured  by  thy  side  ! — 

Like  him,  at  dawn  I'd  charm  thine  ear, 

At  noon,  — at  dewy  eve  so  dear, 
In  dulcet  numbers  would  I  sing 
Thy  virgin  beauty's  blossoming,  — 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOUTH.  211 

And  oh,  though  vain,  would  make  my  tone 
Attempt  the  music  of  thine  own  ! 

But  no,  unequalled,  beauteous  Mary, 
I  cannot  breathe  fit  strains  for  thee, — 

Thine  eyes  so  bright, — thy  form  so  faery, 
Demand  superior  minstrelsy ! 

Whene'er  I  gaze  upon  thy  face. 

With  its  expressive  maiden  grace, 
And  list  thy  voice  that  sweetly  flows, 
As  fragrance  from  a  spring-time  rose, 

My  heart  is  touched, — my  voice  is  still, — 

Mute  homage  binds  my  daring  will ! 

Yet  still,  entrancing,  peerless  Mary, 

I  still  can  breathe  for  thee  a  prayer  : 
'May  time  thy  beauty  never  vary, 

Nor  shade  thy  brow  with  grief  or  care ; 
May  tears  ne'er  dim  those  smiling  eyes, — 
Those  lips  be  never  touched  by  sighs, — 

Thy  barque  float  o'er  a  sunny  sea, 

Mid  isles  of  green  and  fragrancy, 
And  reach  at  last  that  Eden  shore, 
Where  forms  beloved  have  gone  before  ! 


A  LADY'S  VALENTINE. 

Oh,  years  ago,  we  fondly  met. 

With  hearts  elate,  and  hopes  divine. 
And  pleasures  in  each  bosom  sate, 

Like  angels  in  some  pictured  shrine  ; 
Our  brows  were  lit  with  smiles  of  youth, 

Our  hearts  were  filled  with  mutual  love 
Around  us  all  seemed  changeless  truth, 

And  cloudless  skies  were  bright  above, 
No  greater  joy  could  then  be  mine, 
Than  to  have  been  thy  Valentine  t 

But  years  have  passed — and  fleeting  time 

Has  wrought  a  change  in  either  lot  ; 
My  heart  hath  lost  its.  dreams  sublime, 

And  thine  those  pleasant  scenes  forgot. 
Thy  feet  have  followed  wealth  and  fame; 

Mine  in  a  lowlier  pathway  gone  ; 
Thine  is  a  loved  and  honored  name, 

While  mine,  alas  1  is  all  unknown, 


POEMS    OF    THE    SOCTH,  213 

Yet  still  my  bosom  yearns  to  thine, 
And  craves  to  be  thy  Valentine  ! 

The  bird  that  sings  in  vernal  bowel's, 

When  all  around  is  bright  and  blest, 
Will  still,  in  winter's  gloomy  hours, 

Wail  sadly  'round  its  ruined  nest  : 
And  thus  my  heart,  though  thou  art  changed, 

And  lost  forever  here  to  me, 
Would  prove  its  feelings  unestranged, 

And  fondly  pour  its  song  to  thee. 
Oh,  then  in  dreams  again  be  mine, 
And  own  me  as  thv  Valentine  ! 


EPITAPHS. 

On  an  Infant. 

This  little  simple  mound  of  earth 
Is  for  a  double  token  given  : 

That  here  an  infant  had  its  birth, 
But  now  an  anyel  dwells  in  heaven. 

On  an  Aged  Christian. 

The  grave,  where  so  much  goodness  lies, 
Is  but  a  gateway  to  the  skies, 
Through  which  a  saint  has  gone  before, 
And  left  us  weeping  at  the  door. 


On  a  Young  Man. 

Though  but  a  painful  brief  career, 

To  him,  on  earth  was  given, 
Yet,  mourner,  dry  the  gushing  tear, 

He's  passed  to  peace,  in  heaven. 
How  blest  the  fortunes  of  the  young, 

Who  thus,  ere  age  can  wither, 
Hear  sweetly,  from  the  Saviour's  tongno, 

The  mandate, — "  Come  up  hither ! " 


THE     DAY     OF     FREEDOM 
A     POEM 

at  Snscaloosa,  Alabama, 
JULY  4,  1838. 


T  0 


HON.    WILLIAM    RUSSELL    SMITH, 

OF    ALABAMA, 

THIS  TRIBUTE  IN  EARLY  LIFE 

13  AOAIX   INSCRIBED, 

BY   HIS   FRIEND, 

THE    AUTHOR. 


POEM. 


IF  it  be  good  to  think  on  virtues  past, — 
If  many  a  noble  secret,  rich  and  true, 
On  history's  pictured  page,  neglected  lies, 
From  which  the  heart  might  sage  instruction  glean. 
And  a  sweet  moral  learn,  to  guide  its  path, 
Through  times  bewildering  labyrinths,  aright, — 
If  the  brave  deeds,  by  patriot  sires  achieved, 
When  viewed  again,  their  children  liap'ly  prompt 
To  emulation  pure,  and  thus  inspire 
A  kindred  spirit,  and  a  genial  love, — 
A  gratitude  ennobling  to  the  heart, — 
Oh,  sure  it  must  be  good  and  right  alway, 
To  nurse  the  memories  of  this  sacred  day  ! 


218  THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM. 

Illustrious  Sabbath  of  a  ransomed  race  ! 
With  swelling  hearts,  we  hail  thy  glorious  dawn  ! 
What  proud  emotions  fill  our  breasts  with  joy, — 
What  songs  triumphant  tremble  on  our  tongues,- 
What  gracious  memories  of  ancestral  worth— 
Of  hero  deed — of  patriot  wisdom — rise, — 
With  sacred  forms,  enrobed  in  glory's  folds, 
What  heavenly  mien,  like  kingly  spectres,  pass, 
In  staid  procession,  over  memory's  eye, — 
And,  oh,  what  visions  proudly  thrilling  come, 
Of  our  blest  country's  future  destinies, — 
As  we,  once  more,  thy  rapturous  advent  greet, 
Morn  of  the  free,  the  virtuous,  and  the  great  ! 


Earth  hath  her  eras, — many  a  noble  one, — 
The  loved  memorials  of  exalted  deed, — 
Her  trophied  anniversaries  of  fame, — 
Kings  have  their  festivals  of  pomp  and  power, — 
Nations  their  triumphs  for  some  victor-field, — 
But  ne'er,  since  time  his  monarch-march  began, 
Has  day  more  glorious,  ever  dawned  o'er  earth, 
Or  shed  the  breath  of  Heaven,  on  hearts,  whose  pulse, 
To  music's  tone,  with  sympathetic  thrill, 


THE    DAY  OF    FREEDOM.  219 

Kept  piouder  time, — than  this  propitious  morn  !— 
This  sacred  day,  when  Freedom,  rudely  driven 
By  grim  oppression,  from  the  orient  world, 
Found,  'mid  the  bowers  of  the  rosy  West, 
A  shrine  and  temple  where  her  head  might  rest ! 


Auspicious  morn  ! — when  our  forefathers  dared 
Despite  the  leagued  artilleries  of  power, 
And  in  the  wonder  of  a  startled  world, 
Proclaim,  they  were  of  right,  and  would  be  free  ! 
And  to  mankind,  displayed  that  glorious  chart, 
Whose  sentiments  sublime,  this  day,  have  dimmed 
Bright  eyes,  with  pearls  of  gratitude  and  joy  ! — 
Tliis  Bible  of  their  faith,  whose  burning  words 
Were  sacrilegious  deemed  by  nations  then, 
But  whose  eternal  principles  and  truths, 
Upon  the  wings  of  every  wind,  have  sped 
O'er  earth, — 'till,  on  their  thrones,  have  tyrants  felt 
Their  sceptres  trembling,  like  storm-shaken  leaves, 
At  winter's  touch, — and  they  themselves  have  quaked, 
As  Judea's  Ruler,  when  the  Apostle  spoke, 
Before  its  "  still,  small  voice," — so  just  and  true  ! 
Immortal  Instrument ! — whose  starry  light, 


220  THE   DAY  OF    FREEDOM. 

So  dim  and  tremulous  at  first,  has  shed 

A  rosier  glow,  o'er  man's  terrestrial  lot, 

Than, — since  the  Primal  Fall,  save  that  blest  gift, 

Brought  by  the  Paraclete, — from  heaven  e'er  fell ! 

Well  might  celestial  voices,  by  night, 

With  harps  star-tuned  and  brimmed  with  melody, 

To  thy  sad  children,  on  their  hills,  have  sung 

Thy  glad  apostleship,  and  cried  in  joy, — 

"  Good  will  to  man,  and  Liberty  on  earth  !" 


Such  thoughts,  the  bard,  not  sacrilegious,  deems. 
For  oh,  if  heaven's  directing  hand  e'er-traced 
Its  lineaments  of  glory,  on  the  deeds 
Of  mortal  man,  or  wreathed  a  favoring  smile 
Of  its  approval,  'mid  the  dimmer  lights, 
That  emanate  from  mere  terrestrial  power, — 
Its  finger  and  its  rays  have  left  their  glow. 
And  impress,  on  Columbia's  history  ! 
Else  how  could  that  small  patriot  band, — 
Our  valiant  sires — with  but  an  infant's  panoply — 
With  Britain's  power  successfully  have  striven, 
And  from  its  culmination  proud,  torn  down 
The  lion-banner  of  St.  George,  and  trailed 


THE    DAY  OF    FREEDOM.  221 

Its  tropkied  glories  in  th'  ensanguined  dust ! — 

Else  kow,  wken  storm  and  darkness  gathered  o'er 

The  land,  and  serried  kosts,  multudinous, 

Like  Vandal  conquerors,  came,  tk'  inglorious  strife 

To  consummate,  base  Avarice  had  begun. — 

Could  tke  frail  barque,  triumphant,  o'er  the  waves 

Of  the  vexed  sea,  been  borne  in  safety  on  ? — 

Or  our  loved  sires,  above  the  cloud,  beheld 

The  starry  emblem  of  success  and  hope, — 

Like  that,  new-born,  tke  Eastern  Magi,  led, — 

Serenely  bright,  a  comforter  and  guide, 

Through  doubt  and  trouble,  till  their  raptured  eyes 

Upon  their  wished  for  Deity  reposed  I 

Else  how,  to  them,  could  such  prophetic  dreams — 

Such  sweet  assurances, — 'mid  penury, 

And  strife,  and  lean-eyed  famine  and  distress, — 

Of  future  power  and  glory,  have  been  given, 

As  cheered  their  hearts,  and  succored  their  sad  hopes, 

In  stern  bereavement's  darkest — loneliest  hour, — 

And  made  tkem  utter,  then,  glad  strains,  like  this, — 

Poured  from  the  lips  of  one,  with  prescient  power, 

When,  down  the  vista  of  the  opening  years, 

Like  Scotia's  Seer,  at  Sunset's  time,  he  saw 

Afar,  the  grand  results  of  that  great  Day, 


222  THE    DAY  OF    FREEDOM. 

Whose  Anniversary  we  now  have  met, — 
In  proud  fulfilment  of  his  glowing  words, — 
Beneath  this  sacred  dome — God's  templed  shrine — 
With  echoing  hearts,  to  celebrate : 

Oh,  it  shall  be  a  glorious  day,* 

Renowned  in  fame  and  story, — 
When  we  are  sleeping  in  our  graves, 

'Twill  live  in  deathless  glory  ! 
Our  children's  children  long  shall  greet 

Its  glad  return,  with  swelling  bosoms, 
And  on  its  advent  proudly  meet, 

To  twine  for  us  fame's  fadeless  blossoms  ! 
With  pomp  of  drum, — with  bugle  note, — 

With  bonfires  brightly  blazing, — 
With  cannon  roar, — with  martial  throngs, — 

Their  eagle-banners  raising ! 
With  shout,  and  song,  and  dance,  and  glee, 

And  bright  illuminations, — 
They'll  hail  the  Sabbath  of  the  Free, 

Through  unborn  generations  ! 


*  A  paraphrase  of  John  Adams'  celebrated  letter  to  his  wife,  dated 
Philadelphia,  July  5,  1776,  which  Mr.  Webster  has  so  eloquentljT  elabo 
rated  in  one  of  his  orations. 


THE   DAY  OF    FREEDOM.  223 

I  speak  not  wild,  ideal  words, — 

The  brood  of  fancy's  vision — 
I  know  that  only  by  our  swords, 

We'll  win  the  boon  Elysian  ! 
I  know  the  toil  and  strife  and  blood, — 

The  loss  of  life  and  treasure, — 
'Twill  cost  us  to  maintain  these  States, 

And  consummate  this  measure, — 
Yet,  through  the  gloom  around  us  now, — 

The  clouds  impending  o'er  ye, — 
The  storm,  the  strife,  the  battle  smoke, 

I  see  the  rays  of  glory  ! — 
And  though  this  strife  may  last  us  long, — 

Though  you  and  I  may  rue  it, — 
The  deed  is  done, — and  foes,  in  vain, 

Will  struggle  to  undo  it ! — 
We,  we  may  die, — die  vassal  slaves, — 

Perhaps  inglorious  perish, — 
Yet,  yet  our  children,  o'er  our  graves, 

Will  freedom's  altar  cherish  ! — 
And  oft  with  song,  and  dance,  and  glee, 

And  bright  illuminations, — 
They'll  hail  the  Sabbath  of  the  Free, 

Through  unborn  generations  ! 


224  THE    DAY  OF    FBEEDOM. 

Prophetic  words  ! — Oh,  ne'er  did  favoring  heaven, 
To  Israel's  weeping  Bard,  rapt  and  inspired, 
Serener  visions  give, — 'mid  exiled  grief, — 
Of  widowed  Zion's  god-like  triumphs,  when 
His  wailing  harp  from  Babel's  Stream  he  snatched, 
And  on  the  trembling  air,  the  voice  of  song, 
Divinely  threw, — than  thus,  upon  the  gaze 
Of  young  Columbia's  Brave  and  Eloquent, 
Flashed  with  benignant  light,  bright  as  the  wings 
Of  Cherubim,  through  sunset's  gates,  beheld, 
At  summer-eve,  when  clustering  angels  come 
With  plumes  all  fire,  to  watch  the  Day-God  greet 
His  Ocean-bride, — and  their  divinity 
Breathed  on  his  lips,  until  his  word  became 
A  consolation  and  a  promise  sweet, — 
Like  some  young  angel  singing  in  the  dark, — 
Through  the  grim  storm-time  of  their  gloom  and 

strife, — 

The  hearts  of  Liberty's  young  pioneers 
To  cheer ! 

And  nobler,  grander,  was  the  boon, — 
The  gracious  benison,  so  kindly  given, — 
Than  rne  enthusiasts  dreamed.     No  felon  death, — 


THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM.  225 

No  ignominious  fate,  awaited  them, — 

The  brave  forefathers  of  the  Free  ! — They  saw 

The  blessed  consummation  of  their  hopes, — 

They  saw  the  stricken  eagle  rise  again, — 

Shake,  from  his  tattered  plumes,  the  dust  of  strife, — 

Soar  in  the  gold  of  an  unclouded  heaven, — 

And,  with  a  scream  of  mingled  joy  and  pride, 

Place  the  effulgent  Standard  of  the  Stars, 

High  on  the  parapets  of  fame.     They  saw 

Their  land  beloved, — the  Canaan  of  their  hearts, — 

Their  El  Dorado  realized, — revive  ! — 

Its  cottage  homes  in  peace  and  plenty  smile, — 

The  rosy  children  prattling  at  the  door, — 

The  mother  singing  at  her  wheel  within  ! — 

Its  sea  like-fields  with  snowy  harvests  teem, — 

Its  genial  sky,  with  storms  no  more  be  dimmed, 

But  blue  as  beauty's  eye,  bend  o'er  their  heads, — 

Saw  Virtue,  Science,  Opulence,  and  Peace,- 

The  roseate  muses  of  the  Grecian  Dream, 

Linked  in  the  Flower  Dance  of  their  vernal  prime, — 

With  prodigality,  their  treasures,  spread 

O'er  all  the  land  ; — beheld  its  realm  extend 

Wide  as  the  wings  of  light, — o'er  ocean's  wave, — 

O'er  mountains  pinnacled  in  clouds, — o'er  plains 


226  THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM. 

As  kingdoms  broad,  where  nature's  veil  had  hung, 
Unlifted  since  the  birth  of  Time  ; — and  saw 
The  citadel,  which  they  had  reared,  become 
The  home  and  refuge  of  th'  oppressed  and  sad 
Of  every  clime, — until  all  tongues  confessed, 
In  all  its  hours  of  pageantry  and  pomp, 
No  monument  the  world  had  ever  seen, 
Of  man,  so  glorious  and  so  grand  as  theirs, — 
The  moral  Parthenon  of  Liberty  ! 


Such  was  thy  lot,  oh  PROPHET  ORATOR 
Whose  tongue  foretold  the  glories  of  this  Day  ! 
And  his,  that  other  patriarch,  whose  renown 
Must  live  co-eval  with  our  country's  fame, — 
The  immortal  PENMAN  of  this  glorious  Chart  ! 
Like  sacred  brothers,  side  by  side,  ye  bore 

The  Ark  of  Freedom,  through  the  stormy  sea  ! 

* 
United  heart  and  hand,  in  that  good  cause, — 

Its  tribulation,  and  its  triumph  too, — 
Ye  each  beheld,  upon  your  country's  brow, 
The  coronal  of  freedom, — each,  in  turn, 
Was  called,  by  grateful  millions,  to  rule  o'er 
The  land,  in  peace,  which  ye  had  saved  in  war  ! 


THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM.  227 

And  then, — when  ye  had  seen,  full  realized, 
Your  fondest  wishes, — full  your  fame, — even  then, — 
On  this  illustrious  morn,  amid  the  shout 
Of  congregating  millions,  whose  glad  hearts 
Were  brimmed  with  gratitude  and  love,  for  you, — 
With  freedom's  music  rolling  on  your  ears, — 
The  last  sounds  of  the  fading  earth, — and  oh, 
While  "  Independence"  trembled  on  your  lips, — 
Your  spirits  passed,  in  union,  unto  God  1 

Oh,  if  the  observant  heart  of  man  has  e  er, 
Amid  His  works,  the  influence  aweing,  felt 
Of  the  O'er-Etiling  Power,  or  recognized 
His  interference  in  the  aifairs  of  earth, — 
His  palpable  assurances  of  love, — 
The  angel  pinion  flashing  through  the  cloud, — 
It  must  behold  it,  in  a  scene  like  that, — 
When  twin  Elijahs  seek  at  once  the  sky, — 
Dropping  their  robes  all  luminious  with  stars, — 
Amid  a  nation's  kindred  panoplies, 
Unsoiled  and  glittering  in  their  birthday  light, 
And  all  Columbia's  sons  in  reverence  bow, 
With  quivering  lips,  and  tearful  eyes,  and  own 
The  immediate  workings  of  the  Almighty  God  ! 


228  THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM. 

Oft  hath  the  story  of  Columbia's  fame, — 
Her  infant  struggles,  and  her  proud  success, — 
Her  scenes  of  suffering  and  of  victory, — 
By  lips  more  touched  with  fire  than  mine,  been  told  ! 
My  harp,  unused  to  soar  in  epic  strains, 
Is  far  too  faint  her  glories  to  recount. 
But  long  will  Eloquence  and  Song  enwreathe, 
To  celebrate  her  early  deeds.     Even  now, — 
Through  all  the  broad  expanse  of  this  green  land, — 
From  many  a  sunlit  mount,  and  shaded  vale, — 
From  learning's  shrines,  and  fair  religion's  domes, — 
A  thousand  voices  swell  her  history, 
And  many  a  fervid  lip,  with  music  tone, — 
In  sweet  remembrance  of  those  blessed  times, — 
Anc1  proud  commemoration  of  this  Day, — 
Pov  s  forth  some  patriot  lyric  such  as  this: 

Freemen  ! — rise  and  hail  the  morn, 
When  Columbia's  flag  was  borne 
Proudly  o'er  a  tyrant's  scorn, 

By  the  Brave  and  Free  ! 
Eise;  for  'tis  the  glorious  day, 
When  your  fathers,  from  the  sway 

Of  oppression,  tore  away 

Hope  and  Liberty ! 


THE    DAY    OF    FKEEDOM.  229 

Long  and  bloody  was  the  strife,  — 
Feerlessly  they  perilled  life, — 
Daring  e'en  the  savage  knife, 

For  the  glorious  prize  ! 
But  the  God  of  battles,  then, 
Battled  with  those  valiant  men, 
And  the  Bow  of  Peace,  agen 

Gladdened  patriot  eyes  ! 

Sound  !  then  sound  the  plausive  strain, — 
Shout  !  oh,  shout,  from  mount  to  plain, 
And,  with  rapture,  hail,  again, 

Freedom's  natal  day  ! 
Let  the  deep-toned  cannon  tell, 
And  the  pealing  clarion  swell, 
Joyfully,  the  tyrant's  knell, 

On  our  Jubilee  ! 

God  of  Nations  ! — unto  thee, 
Grateful,  now  we  bend  the  knee, 
For  our  peace  and  liberty, 

And  our  country's  fame  ! 
Guard  ! — oh  guard ! — our  nation's  cause, — 
Shield  our  rights,  direct  our  laws, 


230  THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM. 

And,  for  all  our  vaunted  joys, 

We  will  praise  thy  name  ! 

Though  often  thus  have  Poetry  and  Love, 
Their  tributes  laid  at  fair  Columbia's  feet — 
Though  many  a  heaven-tuned  tongue  has,  on  this 

day, 

Her  triumphs,  told  in  burning  words,  until 
The  patriot  eye  has  filled  with  sudden  tears, 
And  the  stern  heart  has  felt  its  fountains  heaved, 
In  mingling  gratitude,  and  pride,  and  joy, — 
As  lift  the  waters  of  the  moon-led  sea, 
Beneath  the  srnilings  of  Endymion's  bride ; — 
Yet  ne'er  by  Sage,  or  Orator,  or  Bard, 
Have  I  e'er  heard,  our  Country's  story  told 
So  eloquent,  as  from  the  wither'd  lips 
Of  some  old  Soldier  of  her  Battle-Time ! 
Oh,  I  have  listened  at  the  twilight  hour, 
When  evening's  shades  seemed  blending  with  the 

light 

Of  by-gone  years,  and,  softly  on  the  heart, 
The  grateful  dews  of  memory  distilled, 
As,  bent  beneath  accumulated  years, 
With  time's  white  blossoms  'mid  his  ringlets  wreathed, 


THE   DAY   OF   FREEDOM.  231 

His  mouldered  tongue  has  told,  of  those  dark  days 

Of  peril  and  of  blood, — and  I  have  seen 

Th'  extinguished  fire  of  battle  and  of  youth 

Once  more  flash  in  his  palsied  eyes,  and  gleam 

Effulgent,  round  his  scar-seamed  brow,  as  he 

Has  pictured  forth  those  scenes  of  suffering, 

And  wrong, — the  wretchedness,  and  pain,  and  want, — 

The  valiant  deeds,  too  small  for  history's  pen, 

But  oh,  full  worthy  of  immortal  fame, 

Our  patriot  sires  achieved  and  bore,  to  win 

The  glorious  privileges  we  possess  ! 

And,  as  I've  gazed  upon  the  plain,  old  man, 

And  child-like  listened  to  him,  I  have  felt    . 

A  reverence, — not  earth's  famed  emperors, 

Her  titled  princes,  or  her  lineal  lords, — 

Descendants  of  a  dateless  ancestry, — 

Enrobed  in  all  their  pomp  and  gorgeousness, — 

Could  raise, — and,  in  the  fullness  of  my  heart, 

Have  cried — God's  blessings  on  the  old  man's  head  ! 

And  such  a  one,  I  lately  knew,  who  dwelt 
Not  far  remote  from  here.     Though  but  a  boy. 
When  conflict's  pinions  overspread  our  land, 
And  though  the  strife  raged  deadliest  round  his  home, 


232  THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM. 

Making  strong  hearts  to  quail,  and  aged  men 
To  tremble,  he  unfearingly  went  forth, 
To  meet  the  invader's  fiery  wrath,  and  drive 
His  minions  from  the  soil.     Yalorously 
He  bore  himself,  and,  with  his  youthful  arm, 
Chivalrous  deeds  performed,  which,  in  a  land 
Of  legendary  lore,  had  placed  his  name, 
Embalmed  in  song, — beside  the  hallowed  ones 
Of  Douglas  and  of  Percy  !     And  not  unsung 
Entirely  is  his  fame.     Eomance  hath  wreathed, 
With  flowery  fingers  and  with  wizard  art, 
That  hangs  the  votive  chaplet  on  the  heart, — 
His  story,  'mid  her  fictions,  and  hath  given 
His  name  and  deeds,  to  after  time.     When  last 
This  trophied  anniversary  came  round, 
And  called  Columbia's  patriot  children  out, 
To  greet  its  advent, — the  old  man  ivas  here, — 
Serenely  smiling  as  an  Autumn  sun 
Just  dropping  down  the  golden  West,  to  seek 
Its  evening  couch.     Few  months  agone,  I  saw 
Him,  in  his  peaceful  home,  with  all  around, 
Its  wishes  could  demand, — and,  by  his  side, 
The  loved  companion  of  his  youthful  years, — 
This  singing  maiden  of  his  boyhood's  time, — 


THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM.  233 

She  who  had  cheered  him,  with  her  smiles,  when 

clouds 

Were  o'er  his  country's  prospects, — who  had  trod, 
In  sun  and  shade,  life's  devious  paths  with  him, 
And  whom  kind  heaven  had  still  preserved,  to  bless, 
With  all  the  fullness  of  maternal  wealth, 
The  mellowing  afternoon  of  his  decline  ! 
Where  now  are  they  ?  — the  old  man  and  his  wife  ! 
Alas  !  the  broadening  sun  sets  in  the  night, — 
The  ripened  shock  falls  on  the  reaper's  arm, — 
The  lingering  guest  must  leave  the  hall  at  last, — 
The  music  ceases  when  the  feast  is  done. — 
The  old  man  and  his  wife  are  gone  ! — from  earth 
Have   passed  in  peace  to  heaven  !    and   summer's 

flowers — 

Beneath  the  light  of  this  triumphal  day,— 
Luxuriant  sweets,  are  shedding  o'er 
Th'  unsculptured  grave  of  HORSE-SHOE  KOBINSON  !* 
Thus  pass    the   seasons — thus  earth's  pomps — 

and  thus 
Have  well-nigh  all  the  patriarchs  of  our  land, 


*James  Robinson,  the  hero  of  Mr.  Kennedy's  admirable  historic  novel, 
died  near  Tuscaloosa,  Alabama,  April  28th.  1838,  aged  seventy  eight 
years. 


234  THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM. 

The  proud  memorials  of  our  valor's  time, 
Star-like  descended  from  our  sky  and  sank 
'Neath  the  horizon's  rim.     But  oh  !  they  rise 
In  glory  as  they  fade  from  us  ! — and  burn 
In  constellations  with  celestial  bands  ! 
Few,  few  survive  !     The  gently  heaving  turf, — 
So  mutely  eloquent, — so  touching,  yet  so  still, — 
In  many  an  unfenced  graveyard,  marks  their  rest 
No  pillared  cenotaph  is  theirs,  — no  shrine, — 
No  Kaaba, — where  pilgrims  may  resort, — 
The  exiled  pilgrims  of  each  suffering  clime, — 
The  holocausts  of  memory,  to  pay. 
A  nobler  monument  is  theirs,  than  such  ! — 
It  is  around  them, — 'tis  their  country's  fame  ! 
Behold  it  in  the  blessings  we  enjoy, — 
The  liberty  and  peace  that  smiles  on  all 
They  fought  for, — and  the  opulence  that  robes, 
With  more  than  orient  magnificence, 
The  land  they  rescued, — and  behold  it  too, 
In  yon  proud  flag, — fair  freedom's  metaphor  ! — 
That  waves  triumphant,  with  increasing  stars, 
On  every  sea,  beneath  the  engirdling  sun, 
That  man  has  visited,  or  Commerce  won ! 


THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM.  235 

These  glorious  benisons,  they  gave  to  us, 
Are  their  best  monuments, — and  shall  we  not, 
In  all  its  purity,  the  boon  protect  ? — 
Shall  we,  degenerate  from  our  fathers'  worth, 
Forget  the  lessons,  they  so  nobly  taught, 
By  deed  as  well  as  word  ? — Shall  we  permit 
Their  legacy, — our  children's  hope, —  to  fail — 
And  demon  Tyranny  again  to  wave 
His  raven  banner,  o'er  our  prostrate  land  ? 
Forbid  it  heaven  !     Shades  of  the  mighty  dead, — 
Our  country's  canonized  sires, — forbid  ! 

Far  other,  on  this  consecrated  day, 
Rapt  fancy  deems  will  be  Columbia's  lot ! — 
The  heart,  elate  with  patriot  fire,  and  filled 
With  holiest  memories,  like  swarming  bees, 
Pictures  bright  Edens,  on  the  Future's  page,  — 
Until  th'  enthusiast  Hope,  moon-eyed  and  fond, 
Becomes  a  prophecy  !     Oh,  if  the  light, 
Olympian,  that  encircled  ancient  bards, — 
Making  the  names  of  Poet  and  of  Prophet  one, — 
Had  not  now  faded, — what  ecstatic  beams, 
Far  shining  from  immortal  Freedom's  sun, — 
Through  a  long  vista  of  impending  years, — 


236  THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM. 

Might  not  now  gladden  our  bewildered  eyes  ! 

Alas,  that  light  has  fled, — that  lyre  is  hushed  ! 

But  sweet  assurances, — more  doubly  sure, 

Than  weird  prophetic  tongue, — to  us  remain  ! — 

He  who  upbore  us  through  our  infant  strife, — 

And  guides  us  still,  hath  said, — that,  "  as  we  sow, 

Our  sons  shall  reap  !" — Our  fate  is  with  ourselves  ! 

And  oh,  if  we  observe  the  noble  lessons  taught, — 

To  guide  us, — by  our  sainted  fathers'  lips, — 

If  we  inherit  aught,  of  that  pure  fire, 

Which  burnt,  on  Freedom's  shrine — that  vestal  flame, 

Whose  going-out  will  be  our  country's  fall, — 

If,  with  a  lidless  jealousy,  we  guard 

The  open  portals  of  our  sacred  fane, — 

Alike  from  strange  and  parricidal  hand, — 

And  oh,  still  more,  if,  with  regardful  eye, 

We  look, — it  is  no  bigot  lip  that  speaks, 

Nor  sacrilegious  yet,  though  stained  with  sin, — 

In  homage  up  to  Him,  our  Fathers'  God, — 

Columbia's  star-roofed  citadel  shall  stand, 

Free  and  unshaken  till  the  death  of  Time  ! — 

With  all  her  prospects  bright  and  beautiful, 

As  is  the  signet  Bow  of  Hope  and  Love, 

Upon  the  Future's  lifting  cloud  to-day  ! 


THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM.  237 

"Tis  not  for  me,  those  lessons  to  repeat, 
Or  sage  instructions,  on  this  day,  to  give. 
Tongues,  to  whose  music,  hoar  experience, 
A  deeper  wisdom,  than  belongs  to  mine, 
Has  given,  and,  a  more  searching  lore,  has  brought, — 
Who  better  know,  'neath  what  deceptive  waves, 
The  sands  and  shallows  lie,  that  shipwreck  States, — 
Would  more  befit  the  counsels  of  this  hour. 
But  yet  some  lessons,  I  have  learned, — some  truths, — 
Which  my  brief  wanderings,  in  the  ways  of  men, 
Have  more  impressed  upon  a  watchful  mind, 
Than  book,  or  scroll,  or  many  pictured  verse  ! 
And,  though  they  may  appear  but  trite,  to  most, 
To  me,  they  seem,  fraught  with  instruction  good, 
And  wholesome,  to  the  patriot  heart. 

Take  one. — 

Beware  of  party  strife  ! — It  is  the  bane, 
That  blights  and  poisons  many  a  goodly  State. 
Et  is  the  apple,  envying  discord  threw 
In  Beauty's  bower,  and  withered  all  its  peace  ! — 
The  tempting  snake,  that  trailed  its  festering  slime, 
O'er  Eden's  buds,  and  poured  its  mildew  breath 
Upon  the  loveliest  of  our  race, — the  sinless  Eve; — 


238  THE    DAY   OF    FREEDOM. 

The  incarnation  sweet  of  innocence 

And  purity, — th'  embodied  poetry 

Of  light  and  love  ! — Beware  of  Party  strife  ! 

By  it  have  all  free  nations  fallen.     With  brow 

Of  light,  and  innocence,  and  smiles, — and  mien, 

So  like  to  virtuous  Liberty  and  Thought, 

That  oft  the  free,  confiding  mind  mistakes 

The  semblance  for  the  God  himself, — it  wears, 

Beneath  its  shining  garb,  a  scorpion's  heart, — 

And  breathes  pollution,  like  a  leper  touch  ! 

It  is  the  subtlest  foe  of  private  peace, — 

Frost  to   domestic   love, — and  fire  to   friendship's 

bonds ! 

Oh,  could  you  watch  its  gradual  progress  through 
The  human  heart, — and  see  it  change  the  young, 
The  buoyant,  and  the  pure,  by  its  fell  shade, 
Into  the  stern,  the  envious,  and  the  cold, — 
Th'  unshadowed  brow,  into  the  haughty  frown, — 
And  wreathe,  around  the  chaste  and  loving  lip, 
The  sneer  of  scorn, — oh,  you  would  turn,   and  curse 
Its  treacherous  image,  for  a  fiend, — and  swear 
For  aye  to  bruise  its  serpent  head.     It  wends 
Its  way  into  the  Statesman's  breast,  and  makes, 
By  the  Circean  influence  of  its  spell, 


THE    DAY -OF    FREEDOM.  239 

His  lofty  mind,  bow  down  to  lowly  thought, — 

His  eagle- wing  stoop  from  its  Alpine  flight,  — 

Until,  in  utter  selfishness,  his  heart 

Forgets  his  nobler  purposes,  and  bends, 

In  vile  subservience,  at  its  shrine.     By  it, 

The  patriot  citizen,  too  oft,  is  driven, 

Into  the  paths  of  error,  and  uplifts 

A  recreant  hand,  against  the  government, 

His  fathers  nourished  with  their  heart's  best  blood  ! 

Oh,  then,  beware  of  Party  strife  ! 

There  is 

Another  lesson,  we,  this  day,  should  learn  : — 
To  love  alike  all  portions  of  our  land! 
The  human  heart  is  full  of  selfishness  ! — 
Those  whom  it  knew  in  youth,  it  loves  the  best — 
The  spot,  where  first  it  saw  the  morning  sun 
Lift  o'er  the  eastern  trees,  is  dearest  aye — 
The  scenes  around  its  residence  become 
A  part  of  its  existence,  and  it  deems 
The  fragrant  air  above  the  neighboring  hills. — 
The  gurgling  streamlet  in  the  sylvan  vale, — 
The  green-rimmed  lake, — the  sweet  sky  overhead, — 
The  whispering  trees, — are  kindred  with  its  veins ! 


240  THE    DAY  OF    FREEDOM. 

And  this  is  right ! — But  we  should  never  let 
Contracted  selfishness,  our  feelings,  sway. 
The  mind  should  give  its  pinions  to  the  heart, 
And  teach  its  gushing  sympathies  to  spread 
O'er  all  the  land, — from  farthest  Maine,  to  where, 
Above  a  lately  ransomed  realm,  the  Star 
Of  a  young  empire  glistens  in  the  South  ! 

Though  broad  and  almost  boundless  is  our  land, — 
Yet,  o'er  it  all,  can  the  reflecting  mind 
Associations  meet,  to  make  it  love 
Alike  each  part.     One  common  cause  is  ours! — 
The  glorious  cause  of  Human  Liberty  ! — 
The  same  remembrances  and  gratitude, — 
One  common  hope, — one  undivided  love  ! — 
The  same  sweet  tongue  our  mutual  fathers  spoke, — 
Its  graceful  literature,  its  rising  lore  ! — 
The  same  blood   leaping  through  our  veins, — and, 

oh,- 

Emblem  of  this,  and  more  than  this, — one  love, — 
One  common  worship,  for  this  festal  day  ! 

What,  though  each  Star  that  on  our  banner  shines, 


THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM.  241 

Moves  in  its  orbit  with  a  sovereign  sway, — 
With  laws,  with  institutions  of  its  own, — 
Yet  "round  one  common  centre  all  converge, 
And  each,  upon  its  golden  pathway,  wheels 
With  sympathetic  harmony  and  force 
And  equipoise  sublime.     Strike  but  one  orb 
From  its  appointed  place,  or  rudely  dim 
Its  purity  and  light,  and  soon  the  whole 
Great  frame- work  of  the  sky,  would  madly  whirl 
In  dire  confusion  and  disaster  vast, 
A  wreck  to  make  even  Heaven's  high  angels  grieve  ! 
Stars  of  the  East  ! — New  England's  Pleiades  ! 
Shine  on — in  light  unshadowed  shine  ! — 
And  guide  new  Pilgrims  to  your  Kock  of  Faith — 
Your  war-crowned  hills,  and  rich  historic  plains, 
Where  Freedom's  feet  first  trod  the  tyrant  down, 
And  left  their  imprints,  never  more  to  fade  ! 
And  oh,  ye  Planets  of  the  roseate  West ! 
Bright-eyed  as  Vesper  with  her  lamp  of  love  ! — 
Or  radiant  Mercury,  or  red-browed  Mars  : — 
Gild  your  vast  plains  with  fertilizing  rays, 
Till  need-born  empires  start  to  civic  life, 
Where  late  the  sandalled  chief  or  bison  trod 
O'er  prairied  deserts,  or  by  endless  streams  ! 


242  THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM. 

Even  now,  brave  hearts,  by  high  baroic  deeds, 

Have  won  your  welcome,  in  the  throng  of  States, 

The  golden  Galaxy  by  freemen  framed ! 

And  oh,  may  heaven,  from  each  attuning  sphere, 

Long  breathe  the  music  of  congenial  faith, 

Of  Union,  fellowship  and  kindred  love. 

For,  States  fraternal,  ye  are  all  but  One  ! 

Each  purpled  page  that  tells  your  warrior  deeds, 

Each  name  sublime,  that  glows  among  your  gems, 

Each  work  of  Art  that  wealth  arid  beauty  brings, 

Each  burning  song  by  native  minstrel  sung, 

All,  all  belong  to  fair  Columbia's  fame — 

Are  treasured  trophies  of  her  blended  power, — 

The  gemmed  regalia  of  her  kingless  realm  ! 

And  whilst  we  love,  each  one  his  native  spot, 

As  best  and  brightest  of  all  parts  of  earth, 

Still  should  the  heart,  with  patriotic  glow, 

Cling  to  all  sections  of  this  glorious  Land  ! 


Such  were  his  feelings,  an  untutored  bard, 
Who  tJms,  in  a  rude  lay,  his  homage  breathed 
Unto  his  native  home, — and  flung  the  gift, 
Like  a  wild-flower,  upon  her  breast  : 


THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM.  243 


Land  of  the  South  ! — imperial  land  ! — 

How  proud  thy  mountains  rise  ! — 
How  sweet  thy  scenes  on  every  hand  ! 

How  fair  thy  covering  skies  ! 
But  not  for  this, —  oh,  not  for  these, 

I  love  thy  fields  to  roam, — 
Thou  hast  a  dearer  spell  to  me, — 

Thou  art  my  native  home  ! 

n. 

Thy  rivers  roll  their  liquid  wealth, 

Unequalled  to  the  sea, — 
Thy  hills  and  valleys  bloom  with  health, 

And  green  with  verdure  be  ! 
But,  not  for  thy  proud  ocean  streams, 

Not  for  thine  azure  dome, — 
Sweet,  sunny  South  ! — I  cling  to  thee, — 

Thou  art  my  native  home  ! 

in. 

I've  stood  beneath  Italians  clime, 
Beloved  of  tale  and  song, — 


244  THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM. 

On  Helvyn's  hills,  proud  and  sublime, 
Where  nature's  wonders  throng  ; 

By  Tempers  classic  sunlit  streams, 
Where  Gods,  of  old,  did  roam, — 

But  ne'er  have  found  so  fair  a  land 
As  thou — my  native  home  ! 

IV. 

And  thou  hast  prouder  glories  too, 

Than  nature  ever  gave, — 
Peace  sheds  o'er  thee,  her  genial  dew, 

And  Freedom's  pinions  wave, — 
Fair  science  flings  her  pearls  around, 

Keligion  lifts  her  dome, — 
These,  these  endear  thee,  to  my  heart, — 

My  own,  loved  native  home  ! 

v. 

And  "  heaven's  best  gift  to  man  "  is  thine,- 

Grod  bless  thy  rosy  girls  ! — 
Like  sylvan  flowers,  they  sweetly  shine, — 

Their  hearts  are  pure  as  pearls  ! 


THE    DAY    OF    FREEDOM.  245 

And  grace  and  goodness  circle  them, 
Where'er  their  footsteps  roain, — 

How  can  I  then,  whilst  loving  them, 
Not  love  my  native  home  ! 

VI. 

Land  of  the  South  ! — imperial  land  ! — 

Then  here's  a  health  to  thee, — 
Long  as  thy  mountain  barriers  stand, 

May'st  thou  be  blest  and  free  ! — 
May  dark  dissension's  banner  ne'er 

Wave  o'er  thy  fertile  loam,— 
But  should  it  come,  there's  one  will  die, 

To  save  his  native  home  ! 

But  now  my  strains  must  cease.  Freemen  and  friends, 
Too  long  I  hold  you  with  my  song. — But  yet 
My  lyre,  rude  as  it  is,  hath,  heart-like,  caught 
The  inspiration  of  this  hour,  and  fain 
Would  linger  on  its  theme  !     It  cannot  be  ! 
Time  wanes, — another  Anniversary 
Will  soon  be  with  the  past !     But  oh,  as  this, 
To  heaven  conveys  the  anthems  of  the  free  ! 


246  THE    DAY   OF    FREE  DOS!. 

As  now  our  country  stands,  robed  in  a  light, 
By  Grecian  pomp  or  Koman  fame  unreached, 
Her  people  happy,  and  her  laws  supreme, — 
As  o'er  her  realm,  science  and  happiness 
Prevail, — so  may  she  stand  to  greet,  with  joy, 
Full  many  a  dawn  of  this  beloved  day  ! — 
And  oh,  when  Time  shall  fold  his  wing,  and  lay 
His  sceptre  down,  and,  king-like,  go  to  rest, —  <- 
May  fair  Columbia's  temple  still  be  seen, 
Untarnished,  and  entire — unwrent  and  free — 
The  last  spot  of  the  crumbling  world,  to  fall, — 
Its  spires  amid  the  stars, — the  smiling  stars, — 
Its  basis  earth, — its  canopy  the  sky  ! 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE 


AN  IRREGULAR  POEM. 


TO  OF   ALABAMA. 


HERE  is  a  frail  memorial  of  a  festive  occasion,  to  the  happiness  of 
which,  both  by  your  beauty  and  gayety,  you  were  one  of  the  chief 
contributors.  Will  the  Muse,  who  inspired  the  production,  give  it  her 
smiles  1 

March,  1841. 


THE  NUPTIAL  FETE. 


How  proudly,  o'er  the  yielding  waters, 
Onr  gallant  Steamer  speeds  along  ! — 

Fairest  and  first  of  Fulton's  daughters, — 
The  queen  of  all  the  goodly  throng  ! 

Before  her  prow,  the  liquid  mirror, — 
G-lass  of  the  wild-duck  and  the  sky, — 

Breaks  into  ripples,  as  in  terror 
The  foaming  spoiler  hurries  by  ! 

On  either  hand  the  trees  receding, 
Seem  moving  quickly  up  the  stream, 

And  hill  and  dale  and  field  succeeding, 
Pass  by,  like  pictures  in  a  dream  ! 


250  THE    NUPTIAL    FETE. 

The  river  too,  the  noble  river, 

Like  some  bright  serpent,  winds  along ; 

And  never  was  a  lovelier,  never, 
Eenowned  by  bard  in  olden  song  ! 

Ah,  had  the  days  of  Nymph  and  Naiad, — 
Sweet  creatures  of  the  Grecian  dream  ! — 

Not  vanished,  like  the  fabled  Pleiad, 

What  forms  would  haunt  this  sylvan  stream  ! 

Then  oft  at  noon,  wild  song  and  laughter 
Would  ring  from  out  her  beechen  creeks, 

And  merry  shouts  come  pealing  after, 
Of  half-seen  spirits  at  their  freaks  ! 

But  now  alas,  all's  calm  and  quiet, 

Save  where  yon  Steamer  holds  her  way  ; 

There  mirth  and  song  and  festive  riot 
Mingle  their  giddy  roundelay  ! 

Lo !  from  her  deck,  her  painted  streamer, 
Floats  forth  upon  the  freshening  breeze  ; 

And  wreaths  and  banners  ! — you  would  deem  her 
Some  fairy  barque  on  fairy  seas  ! 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  251 

And  softly  too  ! — what  sounds  of  pleasure 
Are  ringing  from  her  peopled  side  ! 

The  drum  and  flute,  with  gladsome  measure, 
And  violin,  are  all  allied  ! 

Ah,  well  may  music's  bells  be  ringing, 
And  well  that  Boat  be  deck'd  in  state  ; 

A  gallant  party  she  is  bringing 
To  celebrate  a  NUPTIAL  FETE. 

n. 

Change  we  the  scene  ;  our  numbers  change. 
And  view  a  picture  bright  and  strange. 
Within  that  Steamer's  halls  we  stand — 
How  fair  the  scene,  how  rich  and  grand  ! 
Oh,  ne'er  did  orient  palace  shine 
In  workmanship  more  near  divine  ! — 
Rich  tapestries  from  India's  loom, 
Purple  and  gold,  bedeck  the  room — 
Gay  curtains  shed  a  softened  gloom, 
That  gloom  which  sways  and  wins  the  heart 
In  passion's  hour,  and  seems  a  part, 
Almost,  of  that  deep  tenderness 


252  THE   NUPTIAL   FETE. 

Which  only  loving  hearts  possess  ! 
Art's  richest  miracles  are  here  ; — 
Trophies  to  fame  and  memory  dear  : 
Lo  !  from  yon  wall  a  GUIDO  shines, — 
These  are  his  own  immortal  lines. 
Look  on  that  face  ! — never  was  given 
To  earth  a  brow  more  lit  from  heaven  ! — 
So  high,  so  calm,  so  pure  and  sweet, 
We  almost  worship  at  her  feet, — 
Hailing,  with  deep  devotion's  breath, 
The  Virgin  Mother  of  our  Faith  ! 

But  turn  from  this  :  yon  sculptured  form 
Appears  with  life  instinct  and  warm  ! — 
Ah,  'tis  a  model  of  that  Dream, — 
The  Warrior-Poet's  sweetest  theme, — 
Who  well  its  peerless  grace  portrayed — 
"  The  sun  in  human  limbs  arrayed  !" 
And  many  a  bust  you  here  may  see 
Of  names  embalmed  in  history. 
Behold  this  brow  :  how  meekly  grand  ! — 
He  was  the  Father  of  this  Land  ! — 
And  oh,  till  fades  time's  latest  sun, 
Shall  live  the  name  of  WASHINGTON  ! 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  253 

And  when  the  last  faint  star  of  Eve 
Shall  o'er  our  Country's  relics  grieve, 
Some  lingering  bard  beneath  its  rays, 
Shall  still  his  matchless  merit  praise  !* 

in. 

Such  decorations  meet  the  eye, 

Where'er  it  turns  entranced  around  ; 

But  oh,  a  double  witchery, 

The  senses,  holds  in  thraldom  bound  : 

For  lofty  mirrors,  ranged  between, 

Eeduplicate  the  lovely  scene  ! — 

Mirrors  as  bright  as  that  which  won 

The  gaze  of  Liriope's  son, — 

The  world's  most  famed  and  beauteous  one, — 

Showing  his  features  all  so  fair 

Until,  fond  youth,  he  perished  there  !: — 

Or  clear  as  that  calm  crystal  wave, 

Which  our  first  Mother's  heart  beguiled, 
As  back  her  charms  it  sweetly  gave, 

While,  o'er  her  shoulder,  Angels  smiled  ! — 


*  The  festivities  here  recorded,  took  place  on  the  birth-day  of  the 
"  Fathor  of  his  Country." 


254  THE    NUPTIAL    FETE. 

And  ever  since  that  witching  time, — 
So,  cynic  bards  have  told  in  rhyme, — 
Her  daughters  all  have  lover  to  look 
On  parlor-glass,  or  mirroring  brook, 
And,  like  their  Mother,  blessed  the  view, 
And  thought  that  they  saw  Angels  too  ! 


These  lofty  mirrors  range  the  halls, 
And  hide  the  Cabin's  narrow  walls, 
So  that  its  bounds  no  more  appear 

The  limits  of  an  earthly  scene, 
But  some  gay  tent  spread  in  the  air, 

For  fairies  bright  to  revel  in  ! 


IV. 


Such  is  the  scene  :  but  who  art  these 
That  hold  their  festive  revelries  ? — 
Behold,  slow  winding  through  the  room, 
To  merry  fife  and  throbbing  drum, 
What  crowds  in  gay  procession  come  ! 
First  gorgeous  banners  meet  the  sight, 
Half-flashing  in  the  softened  light ! 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  255 

Now  gallant  soldiers  make  their  way  ; 
A  goodly  and  a  brave  array  ! — 
What  lofty  plumes  nod  on  the  eye  ! — 
How  brightly  gleams  the  musketry  ! — 
How  proudly  up  the  hall  they  march, 
Beneath  its  decorated  arch  ! — 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  on  they  come, 
While  quicker  rolls  the  rattling  drum  ! — 
Whoever  saw  a  nobler  band  ! — 
The  soldiers  of  our  native  land  ! — 
And  though  no  foernan's  summons  rude 
Hath  called  them  now  to  fields  of  blood, — 
To  hasten,  as  their  father's  erst 
Upon  the  invading  Britons  burst, — 

And  though  in  only  sportive  part, 
To  hail  a  comrade's  nuptial  day, — 

A  Brother  dear  to  every  heart, — 
Their  lengthening  lines  they  now  display ; 
Yet  who  can  look  on  their  array, 
Nor  feel  his  pulses  quicker  play, 
No  feel  his  country's  rights  alway, 
Shall  safe  from  foreign  rapine  stay, 
While  shielded  by  her  forest  men, 
Each  one  a  Soldier-Citizen  ! 


256  THE    NUPTIAL    FETE. 

And  now  within  the  hall  they  stand. 
Their  lines  arrayed  on  either  hand  : 
Silent  is  music's  swelling  sound  ; 
Not  stiller  stand  the  statues  round  ! 


v. 

But  lo  !  what  brilliant  visions  come, 
Beneath  the  portals  of  the  room  ! 

Glows  not  the  air  with  added  light  ? — 
Do  not  the  mirrors  brighter  blaze  ? — 

Is't  not  some  magic  wins  the  sight  ? — 
Have  kindlier  planets  lent  their  rays  ? — 
Look  where  they  come  ! — ah  no,  'tis  real, — 
No  vision  from  the  realm  ideal  ! — 
These  are  the  maidens  of  our  land, — 

Sure,  lovelier  creatures  never  shone  on  earth  ! — 
Sweet  Alabama's  daughters,  bland 

And  fair,  as  the  fair  clime  that  gave  them  birth  ! 


VI. 


Our  Southern  women  ! — You  may  talk 
Of  Saxon  beauties  by  the  score, 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  257 

Their  sculptured  forms,  their  queenly  walk, 

Their  charms  renowned  on  every  shore  ; 
Of  famed  Italians  glowing  daughters, 

Voluptuous  as  their  country's  fruits, 
Their  eyes  as  soft  as  shadowed  waters, 

Their  songs  as  sweet  as  Angels'  flutes  ; 
Of  Grecian  Maidens  fair  as  those 

By  old  Anacreon's  numbers  sung  ; 
Of  Harem  beauties  that  repose 

Like  pearls  in  some  dark  casket  flung  : 
Yet,  if  you  once  will  gaze  with  me, — 

Your  bosom  tuned  for  beauty's  call, — 
You'll  own  that  though  divine  they  be, 

Our  Southern  women  beat  them  all ! 


VII. 

Now  winding  on,  the  maidens  come, 
To  music's  most  ecstatic  measure  ; 

Sweet  flowers  upon  their  foreheads  bloom, 
Their  soft  eyes  beam  with  pleasure  ! 

As  brightly  down  the  hall  they  move, 

Breathes  'round  an  atmosphere  of  love  ; 


258  THE    NUPTIAL    FETE. 

Each  soldier  doffs  his  martial  plume, 

And  Valor  honors  Beauty's  bloom  ! 

On  still  they  come,  and  still  they  glance 

Like  angels  in  a  prophet's  trance  ! 

But  hark,  a  softer  strain  is  heard  ! 

Is  that  the  warbling  of  a  bird  ? — 

A  sweeter  voice  was  ne'er  by  music  stirred  !- 

1. 

Strew  your  flowers,  blushing  flowers, 

Strew  them  at  their  feet ; 
Strew  your  flowers,  in  rosy  showers, 

Offerings  bright  and  sweet ! 

2. 

Wave  your  banners,  gorgeous  banners, 

Wave  them  in  their  pride ; 
The  bride  now  comes,  the  beauteous  bride, 

With  the  bridegroom  at  her  side  ! 

3. 

Last  eve  beheld  their  nuptials  sweet, 
Last  eve  they  formed  the  tie  divine, 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  259 

And  now  with  smiling  friends  they  meet, 
In  festive  mood  'round  pleasure's  shrine  ! 


Then  strew  your  flowers,  your  banners  wave, 
And  hail  them  as  they  come; — 

Oh,  may  their  skies  be  ever  bright, 
And  joy  around  them  bloom ! 


VIII. 

Through  the  portals  now  they  enter, 

Love's  selected,  favored  pair; 
In  the  bride  all  beauties  centre, 

Fairest  of  the  many  fair  ! 
O'er  her  brow  what  blushes  speeding, 

Whisper  more  than  words  can  tell, 
Of  the  truth  and  joy  exceeding, 

That  her  lovely  bosom  swell ! 
Young  and  fair  and  sinless  creature  ! 

Life  to  her  has  all  been  love  ! — 
Peerless  form,  and  radiant  feature, — 

Fair  as  Dian's  snowy  dove  ! 


260  THE    NUPTIAL    FETE." 

Ever  'mid  bright  flowers  straying, 

Has  her  pathway  hither  been, 
Birds  "mid  blossoms  'round  her  playing, — 

Angel-guarded  from  all  sin  ! — 
Now  in  all  her  youthful  dreaming, — 

Like  a  young  moon  in  the  sky, 
On  love's  heaven  softly  beaming, — 

Hath  she  pledged  her  faith  for  aye  ! 
Oh,  this  world  has  many  pleasures, 

Kindly  showered  from  above, 
But  of  all  its  Eden  treasures, 

None  so  sweet  as  plighted  love  ! 

IX. 

And  who  is  he,  the  favored  one, 
Who  thus  this  beauteous  bride  has  won  ?- 
See  him  proudly  by  her  standing, 
Form  erect,  and  brow  commanding, 
Oh,  what  hope,  what  peerless  bliss  ! 
What  dreams  celestial,  now  are  his  ! 
Many  a  wreath  has  crowned  his  brow, 
Life's  dearest  one  is  on  it  now  ! — 
For,  what  is  wealth,  or  what  is  fame, 
Or  what  Ambition's  laurelled  name  ? — 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  261 

Although  their  songs  may  fire  the  breast, 

With  a  dreaming  and  unrest, 

Will  not, — cannot  be  supprest ! 

Without  love,  man's  earliest  thrall, — 

The  Eve  that  never  knew  a  fall ! — 

The  Nymph  that  dwells  from  courts  apart 

Yet  soothes  the  Numa  of  the  heart  ! 

That  love  is  his  :  and  proudly  now 

Its  radiance  decks  his  manly  brow. 

It  well  befits  him  too,  for  he 

Has  won  the  trophy  worthily  ! 

Oh,  if  the  precious  boon  of  woman's  love, — 

The  star  for  which  we  yearn  through  life, 
The  leaf  brought  by  the  ark-returning  dove, 

The  rainbow  o'er  a  world  of  strife, — 
Fitly  belongs  to  any,  'tis  to  such 
As  feel  most  deep  the  magic  of  her  touch, — 
'Tis  to  those  souls,  where  genius — spark  of  heaven — 
Shines  with  the  glory  of  its  native  levin  ! 


And  such  the  bridegroom  :  though  the  leaves 
Of  youth  have  scarcely  lost  their  dew, 


262  THE    Xri'TJAL    FETE. 

Yet  that  pure  light,  which  fame  achieves, 

Is  brightening  now  their  fading  hue  : 
For  he  in  learning's  paths  hath  trode, 
Hath  plucked  the  flowers  along  the  road, 
Hath  twined  her  garlands  round  his  name, 
And  proudly  won  a  Poet's  fame  ! — 
And  she,  now  blushing  by  his  side, 
Is, — sweetest  name  on  Earth  ! — a  Poet's  Bride  ! 

XI. 

Oh,  had  the  Bard,  who  faintly  sings 

These  gladsome  nuptials  now, 
But  half  the  music  on  his  strings, 

But  half  the  wild  poetic  glow, 
That  unto  SYLVAN'S  muse  belongs, 

He'd  wake  a  glad,  mellifluous  strain, — 
The  sweetest  of  our  Southern  songs, — 

In  honor  of  the  wedded  twain  ! — 
For  oh,  when  Beauty,  Genius  weds, 
The  fairest  flowers  should  deck  their  heads, 
The  brightest  buds  of  song  should  twine 
A  garland  for  the  bridal  shrine, 
And  music  pour  its  sweetest  tide, 
In  tribute  to  a  Poet's  Bride  ! 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  263 

XII. 

A  POET'S  BRIDE  ! — what  visions  come, 
Like  bright  birds  soaring,  at  the  word, 

What  pictures  light  my  lonely  room, 

From  the  long  past,  by  nitmory  stirred  ! — 

They  come,  they  come,  and  now  they  pass, 

Like  shadows,  over  old  Agrippa's  glass  ! 

Lo  !  standing  'neath  Italian  skies, 

I  see  a  laurelled  Bard  arise  ! 

'Tis  he,  whose  songs,  all  songs  above. 

Have  hymned  the  gentle  powers  of  love. 

Beside  him  leans  a  youthful  form 

With  all  love's  sweet  perfections  warm  ! 

Around  his  neck,  her  bright  arms  wreathing, 

What  whispers  in  his  ear  are  breathing  ! 

She  smiles,  and,  kindling  at  the  smile, 

He  wakes  his  minstrelsy  the  while  ! 

Oh,  all  his  songs  are  dear  to  fame, 

And  LAURA  lives  with  PETRARCH'S  name  !° 


*  In  this,  as  in  two  of  the  succeeding  instances,  so  much  regard  is  not 
had  to  those  who  were  united  in  >:  the  holy  estate  of  mairimony,"  as  to 
those  who  were  indissolubly  associated  in  poetic  interest, — who  were 
wedded  in  soul  and  feeling,  as  in  fame. 


264  THE    NUPTIAL    FETE. 

Another  scene — Broad  halls  are  shining, 

Filled  with  fashion's  sparkling  throng  ; 
Bridal  garlands  they  are  twining 
For  a  favored  son  of  song  ! — 
And  beside  him,  leaning,  trembling, 
In  her  grace  a  fawn  resembling, 

Is  the  gentle  one  that  long 
Hath  held  his  heart  in  homage  bound  ! 
Now  his  wishes  she  has  crowned, 
And  tho  sweetest  boon  of  heaven, 
To  Erin's  Patriot-Minstrel,  given  ! 
But  the  visions  quicker  pass 
Over  memory's  wizard  glass  ! 
Now,  'mid  Scotia's  hills  and  dells, 
BURNS,  with  HIGHLAND  MARY,  dwells  ! 
Now,  'neath  Gallia's  sunset  glow, 
JULIA  wanders  with  KOUSSEAU  ! 
Lo  !  along  the  banks  of  Tweed, 
Kove  a  happy  pair  indeed  J 
Shall  thy  worth  be  e'er  forgot, 
Lovely  bride  of  WALTER  SCOTT  ? 
Darker  visions  gloom  along, 
But  they  shall  not  shade  our  song. 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  265 

These  are  pictures  of  that  bliss 
Which  brightens  life's  dull  willderness  : 
Oh,  long  may  such  glad  visions  beam 
Over  earth's  perturbed  stream, 
As  the  silver  stars  that  light 
The  darkness  of  a  winter's  night ! 

XIII. 

But  we've  wandered  from  our  theme  away  ; 

Let  us  seek  the  scene  again, 
Where  the  gathered  Brave  and  Beauteous  pay 

Honors  to  the  bridal  twain. 
Now  the  merry  tamborine, 
Now  the  giddy  violin, 
Now  the  trump  and  drum  are  blent 
With  many  a  festive  instrument  ! 
And,  in  crowds  that  gaily  glance, 
Onward  speeds  the  circling  dance  ! 

See,  with  gay  and  graceful  charm, 
Beauty  leans  on  Valor's  arm, 
Listening  to  the  whispered  words 
Thrilling  all  her  spirit's  chords  ! 


266  THE    NUPTIAL    FETE. 

Oh,  her  heart  is  like  a  harp, 

Where  the  hand  of  love  might  play  ! 
Were  it  ever  thus  in  tune, 

It  would  pour  sweet  songs  alway  ! 
Now,  as  circling  round  they  go, 
Floating  on  with  music's  flow, 
On  her  fond,  uplifted  face, 
Glows  the  famed  Madonna's  grace  ! 
And  the  youth  beside  her  moving, 
Whither  are  his  visions  roving  ? — 
He  is  gazing  in  her  eyes, 

Far  down  in  their  fountains  deep, — 
Blue  and  bright  as  Autumn  skies, 

Where  the  nestling  Cupids  sleep  ! 
Ah,  bold  gazer,  heed  thee  well ! — 
That  is  woman's  chiefest  spell ! 
Heed  ! — or  she  will  bind  thy  heart, 
As  Cleopatra,  by  her  art, 
The  Koman  chief,  though  stern  and  brave, 
Brought  to  her  feet,  a  very  slave  ! — 
On  with  the  dance, — nor  gaze  too  long, — 
That  strain  is  Hope's  delusive  song  ! 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  267 

XIV. 

The  dance  goes  on  :  to  merry  measure. 

Light  hearts  speed  the  hours  of  pleasure. 

Oh,  how  many  shapes  are  here, 

That  shine  in  beauty's  loftiest  sphere  ! 

And  what  charms  of  form  and  mien 

Shed  their  witchery  o'er  the  scene  ! 

Never  have  mine  eyes  beheld 

A  scene  of  bliss  that,  this,  exceUed ! 

xv. 

I  do  remember  me  that  once, 

In  Venice,  on  a  night  in  June, 
I  mingled  in  the  whirling  dance 

Within  a  proudly-decked  saloon. 
Its  sculptured  walls  were  famed  in  story  ; 

Around  me  wandered  forms  as  bright 
As  Kaphael's  pencil  wed  to  glory, — 

Embodiments  of  rosy  light ! 
The  scene  was  witchery  ! — and  yet 

My  heart,  in  sadness,  turned  away  ; 
It  could  not,  in  that  trance,  forget 

Bright  forms  beyond  the  western  sea  ! 


268  THE    NUPTIAL    FETE. 

Those  forms  are  wandering  round  me  now, 
Are  mingling  in  a  sweeter  dance  ; 

Kindness  is  writ  on  every  brow ; 
Ah,  is  not  this  a  deeper  trance  ? 

XVI. 

But  soft ! — amid  the  sparkling  train, 
Where  youth  and  grace  and  beauty  reign, 
Who  is  she  that  meets  the  sight, 
Like  a  "  Phantom  of  Delight  ?" 
Though  the  forms  around  are  fair, 
None  with  her  can  now  compare  ; 
Brightest  planet  in  the  sky  ! 
Lodestar  of  each  wondering  eye  ! 

XVII. 

Sweet  lady  fair  ! — I  need  not  tell 

Thy  gentle  name  :  I  own  thy  spell ! 

Throughout  that  glad  and  festal  day, 

Votive  homage  did  I  pay. 

I  stood  beside  thee  in  the  dance  ; 

I  watched  thy  blue-eye's  ev'ry  glance  ; 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  23'J 

I  saw  thy  form  glide  graceful  on, 
As  o'er  the  wave,  Cayster's  swan  ; 
I  listened  to  thy  playful  words, 
Sweet  as  the  music  of  young  birds  ; 
And,  as  I  gazed,  I  felt  my  heart, 
That  long  in  joy  had  known  no  part, — 
Around  whose  feelings  time  had  thrown 
A  coldness  like  the  winter  stone, — 
Melt  into  bliss  beneath  thy  smile, 
And  gush  with  joy  and  love  the  while, — 
As  from  the  rock  the  fountains  broke 
Beneath  the  words  the  prophet  spoke ! — 
And  when  the  giddy  dance  was  done, 

We  wandered  on  the  Steamer's  deck, 
And  there,  beneath  the  setting  sun, 

While  glowed  the  West  with  sheets  of  flame, 
And  from  the  shore  the  soft  wind  came, 
Lifting  the  curls  upon  thy  neck, 
I  strove  in  vain  my  love  to  speak  ! — 
Ah,  little  deem'dst  thou  at  that  hour, 
What  feelings  in  my  breast  had  power  ! — 
Could  I  have  coined  them  into  song, 
Some  strain,  like  this,  had  swept  along  : 


270  THE    NUPTIAL    FETE. 

XVIII. 

LOVE'S    METAPHORS. 

Thou  art  a  star,  lady,  thou  art  a  star  ! 
Gleaming  in  beauty  and  light  from  afar  ! 
Heaven's  own  lustre  shines  in  thy  face, 
And  shrines  thee  in  softness,  virtue  and  grace  : 

And  many  a  heart,  and  many  a  knee, 

Lady,  are  bowing  unto  thee  ! 
They  throb,  they  beat,  they  sigh,  they  yearn, 
For  one  glance  of  those  eyes  on  them  to  turn  ! 

Those  eyes, — those  eyes, — those  starry  eyes  ! 

Cynosures  worshipped  by  weak  and  wise  ! 
As  Chaldean  shepherds  worshipped,  of  old, 
The  stars  they  deemed  Gods,  and  died  to  behold  ! 
Though  many  they  are,  who  thus  bend  at  thy  feet, 
And  would  win  thee,  thou  star,  from  thy  blest 
retreat  ! 

Yet  none  of  them  love  thee  half  so  true, 

As  the  humble  bard  who  now  singeth  for  you ! 
Then  deign,  oh  deign,  on  my  path  to  shine, 
Bright  star   of  my  worship  ! — blest,  pure,  and 
divine  ! 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  271 

Thou  art  a  rose,  lady,  thou  art  a  rose  ! 
Fragrant  and  lovely  as  any  that  blows  ! — 
Though  many  a  rival  is  round  thee  seen, 
None,  there  are  none,  like  the  garden's  queen  ! 
The  lily  is  fair,  but  her  cheek  is  pale, 
And  looks  the  maid  of  some  love-lorn  tale  ; 
The  violet's  sweet,  and  the  marigold, — 
By  none  but  the  rose  can  thy  lips  be  told  ! 
Those  lips, — those  lips, — those  rosy  lips  ! 
Flowers,  where  the  honey-bee  faints  as  he  sips  ! 
Ah,  many  a  lover  would  die  if  he  might 
But  press,  for  one  second,  those  lips  of  light ! — 
Or  hear  them  in  kindness  fragrantly  breathe 
The  thoughts  which  he  prays,  may  cluster  beneath ! 
Yes  though  there  are  such,  none  love  thee  so  true 
As  the  humble  bard  who  now  singeth  for  you  ! — 
Then  deign,  oh  deign  on  my  path  to  beam, 
Sweet  rose  of  my  heart ! — hope's  Endymion  dream ! 


Thou  art  a  lute,  lady,  thou  art  a  lute  ! 
Whose  strain  of  melody  never  is  mute  ! 
Never,  oh  never  did  bard  repeat 
His  song  of  love  in  music  more  sweet, 


272  THE    NUPTIAL    FETE. 

Nor  angel  breathe  his  favorite  hymn, 
With  richer  tones  'mid  the  seraphim, 
Than  those  that  enrapturing  float  "round  thy  way, 
When  thy  heart  and  voice  unite  in  some  lay  ! — 
That  voice, — that  voice, — that  lute-like  voice ! — 
Whose  gentlest  thrill  makes  the  heart  rejoice  ! 
How  many  have  hung  entranced  to  hear 
Its  swan-like  cadence  fall  on -the  ear  ! — 
And  many,  now  bowing  around  thee,  deem 
That  thou  art  all  music, — some  heavenly  dream  ! 
Though  many  there  be,  none  love  thee  so  true 
As  the  humble  bard  who  now  singeth  for  you  ! 
Then  deign,  oh  deign,  to  shed  o'er  his  woes, 
Light,  music,  and  fragrance, — star,  lute,  and  rose ! 


XIX. 

Our  gallant  Steamer  now  had  gained 
The  limits  of  her  western  way, 

And  proudly  paused  awhile  to  view 
The  glorious  scene  that  round  us  lay  ! 

Stained  by  the  colors  of  the  sunset  sky, 

A  road  of  gold,  the  river  rippled  by  ; 


THE    NUPTIAL   FETE.  273 

Far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  it  gleamed  away, 
Beneath  the  flashes  of  the  dying  day  ; 
While,  in  the  distance,  like  some  Indian's  boat, 
Dim  hurrying  shadows  o'er  the  surface  float ; 
Until,  far  reaching  'neath  the  sunset's  pyre, 
The  rippling  waters  seem  to  melt  in  fire  ! — 
Oh,  what  a  bright  emblazonry, 
That  evening,  robed  the  Western  sky  ! — 
Tuough  ever  in  our  gorgeous  clime, 
It  is  a  most  impassioned  time, 
And  nobler  pageants  meet  the  eye, 
Than  ever  blazed  in  Italy, — 
Flinging  Apollo's  parting  rays 
Above  his  earlier  dwelling-place, 
As  though  the  God  still  loved  to  view 
The  shrines  which  once,  his  worship  knew  ! — - 
Or  ever  flashed  o'er  Sunium's  steep, 
Turning  to  gold  the  jEgean  deep,— 
As  on  that  eve,  when,  through  her  isles, 
Ulysses  fled  Calypso's  wiles, — 
And  sky  and  wave  and  island  bower 
Partook  the  passion  of  the  hour  ! — 
Yet  never  was  a  lovelier  even 
To  raptured  eyes,  in  beauty,  given, 


274  THE    NUPTIAL    FETE. 

Beneath  our  soft,  Ausonian  heaven  ! 
Where,  proudly  down,  his  journey  done, 
Had  sunk,  in  pomp,  the  imperial  sun, 
An  armament  of  clouds  was  seen, 
With  every  gorgeous  color,  sheen  ; 
And  now,  above  his  kindling  rays, 
Their  host  is  all  one  mighty  blaze, 
And,  like  a  city  wrapt  in  fire, 
With  wreaths  of  flame  'round  every  spire, 
It  glows  before  the  gazer's  eye, — 
The  blazing  Moscow  of  the  sky  ! 

xx. 

How  lovely  too,  the  scene  around  ! — 
'Tis  rich  traditionary  ground. 
Yon  beetling  cliff,  so  rugged,  steep, 
The  Ked  Man  called  THE  LOVER'S  LEAP. 
So  high  its  top  you  scarcely  now 
Can  mark  the  cedars  on  its  brow  ; 
And  the  small  streams,  that,  from  it,  come, 
Are  midway  lost  in  rain  and  foam  ! — 
And  yet  in  olden  times, — they  say, — 
A  chieftain,  from  his  foes,  one  day, 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  275 

In  triumph  bore  his  bride  away  : 

A  hundred  warriors  quick  pursued, — 

A  hundred  warriors  bent  on  blood  ! — 

They  track  him  through  the  devious  wood ; 

At  every  turn  they  hem  his  path, — 

Shouting  with  dread,  relentless,  wrath  ! — 

On  !  fearless  Hover  of  the  wild, — 

On  !  with  thy  foeman's  treasured  child. 

Though  ever  swiftest  in  the  chase, 

'Tis  now  a  fiercer,  deadlier  race. 

On  !  with  thy  bride,  nor  pause  for  breath, 

Thy  only  chance,  escape,  or  death  ! 

At  length,  in  safety,  with  his  bride, 

He  gains  the  river's  anxious  side  ; 

But  what  a  deadlier  doom  is  this  ! — 

They  stand  upon  a  precipice  ! 

Upon  its  dizzy  verge,  they  stand, — 

Their  corning  foes  on  every  hand  ! 

One  moment  now  they  pause  to  hear, — 

The  vengeful  warhoop  echoes  near  ! 

There's  no  escape  ! — Shall  that  fair  child, 

By  heartless  fury  be  defiled  ? 

Shall  that  young  warrior,  for  her  sake, 

Die  by  the  faggot  and  the  stake  ? — 


276  THE    NUPTIAL    FETE. 

There's  no  escape  !     Yes,  heavens  ! —  they  leap 
From  off  the  summit  of  the  steep  ! 

Pale  gazer  on  yon  lofty  cliff. 
Tell  me  the  fate  of  that  bold  chief ! 
Think  you,  that  leap,  he  could  survive, 
And  with  the  waves  successful  strive  ? — 
Ah,  yes  in  safety  o'er  the  tide, 
He  proudly  bore  his  hard-won  bride  ! — 
And  long  his  deeds  shall  live  in  fame, — 
For  TUSCALOOSA  was  that  warrior's  name  ! 

XXI. 

But  now  the  scenes  around  grow  dimmer  : 

The  cliff  and  sunset  fade  away  : 
Soft  through  the  skies  the  cold  stars  glimmer  : 

The  young  moon  sheds  her  virgin  ray. 
Up  with  the  steam  ! — our  gallant  vessel 

Too  long  hath  lingered  on  her  way, — 
Yet,  ere  we  leave,  one  parting  volley 

The  soldiers  to  their  memories  pay, 
Whose  names  have  shed  a  halo  round  the  scene, — 
The  chief  of  this  broad  realm,  and  his  wild  forest-queen  ! 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  277 

Hark,  from  the  cliff,  what  echoes  thunder  ! 
The  opposing  banks  reply  in  wonder  : 
The  wild  deer  startled  from  his  sleep, 
Dashes  along  the  lofty  steep  : 
The  eagle  screaming  soars  around, 
Scared  by  the  rude,  unwelcome  sound. 
Such  sounds  those  hills  have  never  heard, — 
By  such  their  quietude  been  stirred, — 
Since  famed  DE  SOTO,  that  wild  Spanish  rover, 
With  his  fierce  band,  this  gentle  stream  crossed 
over  ! 

XXII. 

Now,  up  the  stream,  our  graceful  steamer 

Speeds  like  a  breathing  thing  along, — 
While,  in  her  cabin,  many  a  dreamer 

Listens  to  Beauty's  witching  song  ! 
In  festive  mirth,  dance  on  the  hours, — 

All  hearts  are  wreathed  with  hope  and  bliss  ; 
And  some, — the  sterner  sex, — in  showers  ! — 

Partake  the  goblet's  beaded  kiss  ! 
Ah,  bright  CHAMPAGNE  ! — the  golden  nectar, 

The  elixir  fit  for  realms  divine  ! — 


278  THE    NUPTIAL    FETE. 

Not  Hebe,  in  her  dalliance,  decked  her 

Goblets,  with  brighter  waves  than  thine  ! 
'Tis  said, — and  I  believe  the  story, — 

That  Bacchus,  when  he  rose  from  earth, 
Left,  as  memento  of  his  glory, 

Thy  recipe, — sweet  source  of  mirth  ! 
Ah,  long  may  thy  glad  vintage  brighten, — 

Impulse  of  pleasure  and  of  song  ! 
All  sorrows  of  the  heart  to  lighten, — 

Thy  glorious  waters  sparkle  long  ! 
And  oh,  should  wrinkled  care  overtake  me, 

My  purse  give  out, — my  lady-love, — 
As  women  will  ! — coldly  forsake  me, — 

No  flowers  around,  no  star  above  ; 
Oh,  then,  my  friends, — if  I  may  ask  it, — 

For  doubtful  'tis  if  one  remain, — 
Send  me  in  love — a  half-a-basket 

Of  Sillery's  best  star-champagne  ! 


XXIII. 

In  mirth,  we  said,  flew  on  the  hours, — 
In  mirth  and  song  in  Beauty's  bowers,- 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  279 

If  bowers  the  dreaming  Muse  may  call 

That  Steamer's  decorated  hall  ! — 

But  ah,  the  bard  cannot  rehearse 

Those  mysteries  in  his  fading  verse  : 

How  many  hearts,  that  night,  were  won, 

Or,  sadder  fate,  were  "quite  undone  !" 

These  sacred  incidents,  alone, 

To  such  as  felt  them,  can  be  known  ! 

The  whispered  speech,  the  smothered  sigh, 

The  tear-gem  in  the  drooping  eye, 

The  blushes  o'er  the  bended  neck, 

The  vows  upon  the  strolling  deck, 

The  frowns  upon  the  Moon,  whose  light, 

By  lovers  loved,  was  all  too  bright 

For  some  that  strolled  that  festal  night, 

Must  all  in  secret  live  or  die, 

Unechoed  by  our  minstrelsy  ! 

Suffice  it  now  in  song  to  tell, — 

The  last  notes  of  the  sinking  shell, — 

That  "  all  went  merry  as  a  married  belle  !" 

And  when  at  length  our  gallant  barque 

• 

Had  gained  her  anchorage  in  the  port, 
And,  slowly  strolling  through  the  dark, 
The  scattered  wanderers  home  resort, — 


280  THE   NUPTIAL    FETE. 

All  hearts  were  brimmed  with  happiness, 

In  memory  of  the  recent  bliss, 

And  all  with  feeling's  deepest  swell. 

Breathed  forth, —  or  should  have  breathed,  this  fond 

FAREWELL: 

1. 

Farewell !  to  the  Barque,  that  has  borne  us  to-day, 

In  happiness,  over  the  rolling  wave  ; 
Oh,  long,  on  the  stream,  may  her  bright  pennons  play, 

Endeared  to  the  hearts  of  the  Fair  and  Brave  ! 
And  back  when  we  turn  from  the  shadows  of  time, 
To  gaze  on  the  stars  that  brightened  youth's  sky, 
The  hours  we  past, 
In  her  bosom,  will  last, — 
The  brightest  and  best,  on  the  age-faded  eye  ! 

2. 

Farewell,  to  the  Bride  ! — who,  in  life's  rosy  hour, 
Hath  launched  her  frail  shallop  upon  the  sea  ; 

With  innocence,  beauty  and  love  for  her  dower 
And  visions  as  gay  as  dream-poesy  ! 


THE    NUPTIAL    FETE.  281 

May  prospering  breezes,  aye,  fill  her  fair  sails, 
And  shadows  her  blue  sky  hever  o'er  whelm, 
But  brightly  her  boat 
O'er  the  deep  waters  float, 
With  Hope  at  the  prow,  and  with  Love  at  the  helm  ! 

3. 

Farewell  to  the  Bridegroom  ! — the  honored,  the  blest  ! — 

His  sky  is  now  lit  by  life's  loveliest  star  ! — 
Oh,  long  be  his  heart  with  such  pleasures  possess'd, 

And  never  be  shadowed  by  sorrow  or  care  ! — 
His  harp  that,  in  sweetness,  oft  trembled  with  song, 
Oh,  soon  gush  its  fount  with  lovelier  strains  ; 
And  ever  its  strings, — 
As  the  dying  swan  sings, — 
Pour  the  gladdest  of  music  while  life  remains  ! 


Farewell  unto  all,  who  have  wandered  to-day  ! — 
The  brave  and  the  lovely,  the  dull  and  glad, 

The  hearts  that  were  swimming  with  visions  all  gay, — 
The  heads  that  were  swimming  with  what  they  hadhad! 

To  each  and  to  all,  a  happy  good-night  ! — 


282  THE    NUPTIAL    FETE. 

The  hour  is  growing,  for  song,  rather  late 
But  now  as  we  part, 
Oh,  long,  in  each  heart, 

The  memory  live  of  the  NUPTIAL  FETE  ! 


THE   END. 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OP  25  CENTS 


LD  21-100w-7,'40 (6936s) 


843306 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


